Song of Hakonsdotter: A Warrior Rises
by gwap-queen
Summary: Honorary Title: All Dogs Go To Sovngarde When a traveling mercenary finds herself being accused of allying with the Stormcloaks, she's arrested and condemned to death. Salvation comes on the wings of ruin, but when she manages to claw her way to safety, she's granted a new lease on life. What will she make of herself with her freedom? And what destiny do the Divines have in store?
1. Chapter 1

**16** **th** **Last Seed, 4E201**

She hadn't been this angry in a long, long time.

Her hands were trembling as they held up the leather flap of the saddle bag, and her eyes stared disbelievingly at the dozens of small indigo bottles nestled inside—identical to the ones filling the other saddle bag, _and_ her client's rucksack. There were easily over a hundred bottles, and she registered that fact in a daze, somewhere behind the roaring anger.

The steady pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears were making it significantly more difficult to hear the noble man babbling from where he stood behind her—difficult, but not impossible. He was trying desperately to quell her obvious rage, but couldn't seem to stick to any one angle for more than a sentence or two. She could hear the nerves stretched taut in his voice, and the unmistakable pitch of fear.

'You weren't supposed to find out!' He sounded almost pouty, and when her only response was to hunch her shoulders and tighten her grip on the saddle bag, his tone turned appeasing again. 'Look, it's not as bad as you think, I swear! I know I lied, but...but I _promise_ , if you just hold up your end of the bargain and take me to Riften, I'll split the money with y—'

'I don't want your dirty money,' she spat, cutting him off, and slapped the flap down in disgust. 'I'm having nothing to do with this.' Her voice was quivering in her anger, and she remonstrated herself viciously to make it hold still. Now was no time to sound weak.

'What do you mean?' His voice was laced with obvious panic, but still she didn't turn around.

'You're _already_ involved,' he continued. 'You took on this job, signed a contract...' his words were starting to slip together as he talked faster in his fear. 'I paid you good money to travel with me. If you're thinking of backing out now, I won't have it. I'll—' his voice broke, and then came back threatening, with the sheen of desperation still coating his words like oil. 'I'll ruin you! I'll tell everyone I know that you're no good. You won't find work agai—'

Now she _did_ swing around to face him, and the look in her eyes had the noble staggering back.

Her right hand gripped the hilt of her sword. For a wild moment, she considered just killing him, and leaving the body to rot in the woods. She had always considered herself an honorable woman, and there was no honor in murdering a client. And she never had before...but she had never had a job go sour like this. She eyed him, taking in the sheen of sweat on his pale face, and the softness of his privileged body, and knew that she could do it. The man was a few years her junior, and looked as if he'd barely held a blade in his life. The sun was starting to set behind the trees, turning the forest murky; it would be dark soon. If she killed him now and buried the bags, she could ride the horse to Nightgate Inn, and nobody would be the wiser...

But the crazed moment passed, and she mentally shook herself.

 _That's not you._

In the four years that she'd been a mercenary, she'd worked hard to make sure that she always stayed on the right side of the law, and had carefully screened her prospective clients. This job hadn't seemed any different when she'd taken it, and as a result she hadn't discovered this little _pissant's_ secret until it was far too late.

And whether she liked it or not, his threat held weight. He came from an important family in Morrowind, and he had the ability to cripple her business, if that was what he wanted to do.

But it still wasn't worth resorting to murder.

She peeled her fingers off of her sword, and balled her hands into fists. She hit him with a withering glare, and when she spoke again, it was through clenched teeth.

'I made things perfectly clear when we met. I transport people, animals, objects. I don't move slaves. And I don't move _drugs_.'

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off again.

'That—' she jerked her head in the direction of the stalled horse, and his rucksack laying open on the ground— 'is a fortune's worth of Skooma. What were you planning to do with so much?'

His cheeks flamed, and he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive in spite of (or perhaps because of) his arrogance. 'I don't see how that's any of your business.'

Her eyes narrowed even further. 'I'd bet you're planning to sell it all over the province.'

The look on his face was all the response she needed, and she drew herself up to her full and considerable height before continuing.

'I should report you to every Hold in Skyrim,' she snapped. 'And I still might. But for now, I'm making things easy on myself—I'm dissolving our contract due to you breaching the terms.'

He gaped at her then, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but before he could interrupt her, she continued.

'I'm not going to leave you here in the woods by yourself, no matter if you deserve it. I'm not heartless, and you look like the type of snowberry who'd get taken out by a skeever.'

'You can't do this,' he spluttered.

'The _hell_ I can't,' she snapped back. 'We'll travel together to the closest settlement, and then you're on your own. I'm washing my hands of this. And if you have even part of a brain in that head, those bottles will disappear somewhere along the way. Catch my drift?' She resettled the straps of her own pack on her shoulders, and turned around to leave. 'Now pack up your shit, and let's move.' With that, she started walking.

'You can't _do_ this to me,' he wailed at her back. 'You double-crossing bitch! Do you know who I _am?'_ But she just smiled grimly to herself and kept on walking.

* * *

They'd only been walking for another few minutes when she'd had to rustle up her lantern, and light it to illuminate their path through the trees. Ordinarily she would've set up camp, but only a fool would think to try sleeping next to a freshly made enemy.

And there was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that she'd made an enemy out of the angry Breton riding behind her. He'd made all sorts of different threats as she'd walked away into the forest and he'd had to rush to catch up with her. But when he'd seen that nothing he said was fazing her anymore, he had quickly fallen into sullen silence, and it was in silence that they travelled now.

She knew from her experience with the surrounding area that they were coming up on a place called Darkwater Crossing; there was a community of miners who made their home there during the summer months, and they were well enough established that they had a courier line that ran periodically out to several of the other holds, and especially Windhelm and Riften.

As far as she was concerned, the community more than qualified as a settlement, and a plan was quickly forming in her mind. She would leave her idiot client— _ex_ - _client_ , she firmly corrected herself—with the miners, and leave them some gold to compensate for the inconvenience of knowing him. She would ask whoever was in charge of the camp to make sure he was taken care of until they could send out a courier with a request for a carriage. And then the scum ball could go wherever he wanted; whether to Riften or back to Morrowind, or to Oblivion for all she cared—it wouldn't be her problem anymore.

She was feeling satisfied with herself and with the plan, and picked up her pace towards the encampment she knew wasn't far away. The terrain was plenty hilly in this part of the province, and soon they were negotiating a narrow winding path that made the horse whinny nervously, thickly forested on either side. It was far from easy-going, and she subconsciously held her breath as she led the three of them onward. Around the last bend, after several tense minutes, the ground evened out and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she heard a rustling noise to her immediate left, and what she saw when she turned her head made her stop in her tracks.

Stormcloaks. Over two dozen of them sat huddled on the ground in a loose circle against the rocky outcropping she'd just picked their way down from. They looked haggard and worn, their cuirasses patched and threadbare, their faces flickering in the dim light of a single lantern burning low in the centre of the circle. And all of them were staring at her.

 _Shit._ She would've preferred a sabre cat. Any other dangerous beast, really.

She'd been keeping track of the civil war's progress—or lack there of—while she'd worked out of other provinces. And in all of her forays back into Skyrim, she'd been careful to avoid contact with either faction...but especially with the Stormcloaks. They were rebels; traitors to the Empire, and because of it they were hunted ruthlessly by Imperials and Aldmeri alike. No place where Stormcloaks lingered was safe for a neutral party—Imperial authorities had infamously little sympathy for anyone who 'allied' themselves with rebels, and it didn't take much to count as an ally in the eyes of the Empire _or_ Dominion.

And these Stormcloaks were no exception. They'd been sitting huddled and silent off of some narrow forest trail under cover of night, with hardly any light to even see by, let alone a fire to warm themselves or cook their food. They looked as if they hadn't slept in days, and many of their faces held open suspicion—they were clearly trying to lay low here.

This was not a good place to be.

Before she could make another move, a man near the centre of the circle with a long blonde beard and a prominent scar rose quickly to his feet and addressed her.

'Hail, kinsman.' His tone was guarded, and she saw that his hand gripped the handle of an axe at his side. 'What business do you have here?'

'No business,' she replied immediately. She squared her shoulders and held his gaze. 'We'll just be passing through.'

He quirked a brow, tilted his head. 'This is pretty secluded country. What brings you through _this_ part of the forest?'

Inwardly, she cursed. They probably thought her an Imperial spy. She would have to play her cards right, or she'd have a bigger problem on her hands than the idiot behind her.

'I am a mercenary,' she told him, her tone amenable. 'And this man is my client. We're making our way to Riften.'

'To Riften, you say?' The Jarl of Riften backed the Stormcloaks, and everybody knew it. 'Why take such an indirect route?'

'My client wished to avoid the volcanic plains, so we're making our way around them.' The words came easily, because they were the truth. The man seemed to relax, just a bit; it was a well-known fact that the plains were best avoided. She extended her hands palms up in front of her.

'We have no quarrel with you. We're just on our way to the Rift.'

He eyed her for another second, and then nodded to her curtly. 'Very well.' He relaxed his grip on the axe, and she turned to make a hasty departure.

It was then that the Breton opened his mouth.

'Now, hang on a second,' he wheedled, and the eyes in the circle shifted from her to the man on the horse.

'You can hardly expect me to travel through the entire night, can you? I need to rest.' He flicked his eyes over the group of ragged men and women to his left, and jutted a hand out towards them. 'You said yourself that it's safer to venture the wilds in numbers, and it looks like they're already set up for the night. Why don't we camp with them?'

Both she and the bearded Stormcloak started talking at once.

'We're not looking for—'

'That's not a good—'

They looked at one another for a bare second, and then she snapped her head back to look up at the man she was leading.

'It would be best for us to keep moving,' she said tersely.

'But _why?_ ' His tone of voice made it perfectly clear that he thought she was being crazy, and his face was set into stubborn lines.

She felt her anger starting to mount again, but kept it firmly in check. 'You can't just stumble into any camp you find and insist that they take you in. That's not how the real world works.'

He straightened up in his saddle defiantly, and flippantly tossed the reins he'd been clutching over the saddle's horn. He looked maddeningly imperious now, and his mind was clearly made up. 'I see no reason for us to continue. This is a perfectly good place to set up camp, and surely, rebels or no, they wouldn't mind sharing the space with fellow travellers.'

She opened her mouth to respond, but one of the Stormcloaks beat her to it. Tough and grizzled, with a hank of greying hair, he scowled at the Breton as he lurched up from the ground and took a menacing step toward them.

'Rebels? You are looking at proud Nords. The true sons and daughters of Skyrim! If we rebel against anything, Breton, it's the oppression of Elven _filth_.'

Things were starting to get out of hand. The noble idiot had clearly offended more than a few of the Stormcloak soldiers, and a dark muttering had started among them. She spun quickly around, and held her hands up and out in a peaceable gesture.

'Please, don't listen to him,' she said quickly, trying to keep her tone civil. 'He doesn't know what he's talking about.' Then she rounded back on the insufferable man on his horse, and levelled him with a vicious glare.

'This is non negotiable. We are _leaving, now._ '

'Aye.' The Stormcloak who'd first spoken agreed with her, and he sounded decidedly unfriendly now. 'T'would be best for you to listen to your sell-sword, I think.'

The young Breton's eyes gleamed with a strange kind of belligerence, and when she reached out to grab his reins, he snatched them away from her.

Her temper surged, and her words came out in a shout. 'Enough of this! Stop making an _ass_ of yourself, and move the gods-damned horse!'

'Or _what_ , you stupid _s'wit_?' he shouted back. 'What are you going to do?'

What her answer might've been, they never found out. At that moment, the forest around them filled with the sound of yelling men, and all at once they were no longer alone in the camp.

* * *

What she'd feared most as soon as they'd stumbled into the Stormcloak's hiding place had become a reality. It was an Imperial ambush.

The scuffle that ensued had been spirited, but short. The Stormcloaks had outnumbered the Imperials, but the Imperials had the advantage of surprise, and had taken their time surrounding the camp. And the Stormcloaks _were_ diminished; exhaustion made them easy opponents, and it wasn't long before the fight was determined.

She had tried to flee the scene and leave the Breton to his fate when chaos had broken out in the camp, but a soldier in steel armor had anticipated her and knocked her flat on her back, winding and dazing her. She hadn't so much as drawn her sword in resistance, but from there, it made little difference. Her hands and feet were bound with rope like the surviving Stormcloak soldiers, and she was dragged roughly through the woods by her wrists.

She could hear the nobleman yelling pitifully from somewhere ahead of her in the trees. He was sobbing, proclaiming loudly over and over again that he had nothing to do with the rebellion, telling their captors his name and the names of his noble parents, but it didn't seem to be doing him any good.

When she craned her neck, she could see through the light of the Imperial's torches that they had commandeered the Breton's horse, and were walking it along. Her stomach lurched painfully—she knew what they'd find when they searched the saddle bags.

After another minute, amidst all of the Stormcloak's cursing and the Breton's sobbing and the rustling of the undergrowth as bodies were dragged through it, she heard the voices of Imperial soldiers calling out to each other in the distance. Moments later the trees started to thin, and then she was being hauled onto an actual road—one of the Emperor's roads, stone-cobbled and well established. As soon as she felt her armored back connecting with the rocks, the man who'd been dragging her through the forest abruptly dropped her, and headed back into the woods—presumably to help others with their prisoners.

She struggled against her bonds, but they'd been well tied, and before she could make much progress, a different Imperial soldier approached her.

'Please.' She did her best to keep her voice level, to reason with him. 'I am not a rebel. I was simply passing through when you attacked the camp.'

He snorted. 'Right. Because this would be the first time I've ever heard _that_ excuse.'

'Look at me. Do I _look_ like a Stormcloak? Am I wearing the armor? Think.'

The man held his torch up then to actually look at her. He saw a statuesque Nord woman in sturdy armor, devoid of Eastmarch's bear. She had thick black hair that had unravelled and was full of debris from the forest. Mud streaked her thoroughly, and there was a fire in her eyes that betrayed her level voice.

But the Imperial shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. There's more than one way to make a traitor of yourself. And the company you keep can't be ignored. Armor or no armor, we're taking you in.'

Frustration spiked in her and clawed at her like a wild animal, and she had to bite her lip to keep from snarling. She glared at him in contempt. 'I'm innocent,' she said flatly.

'We'll be letting General Tullius be the judge of that.'

'If he's half as dim as the rest of you, then he can kiss my ass.'

Now the Imperial looked menacingly at her, and when he responded, his voice was sharp. 'Hold your tongue, woman. You're in the Empire's custody now.' He reached down to grab her with the hand not holding a torch, and started to drag her down the bumpy road.

She weighed her options quickly, and didn't see that she had many—as far as she was concerned, there was really only one. Determination had started a fire in her gut.

'See if you can keep me that way,' she responded. And then she reared up with all her strength.

The force of her flailing as hard as she could was enough for her to drag her captor down to the ground and wrench herself free from his grasp; quick as a hare, she was on her hobbled feet and staggering away from him. She only knew one flame spell, and it wasn't very strong, but she used it now to blast the ropes that bound her feet together. It took longer than she'd expected, nearly too long, and the fire coming into contact with her leather boots made them singe and smoulder. But the Imperial had on heavier armor than she did, and she was given precious seconds while he struggled to clamber to his feet. After what felt like an eternity to her adrenaline-filled system, she ripped the charred ropes apart with a lunging step, and she started at a dead run for the forest she'd come from, hands still bound in front of her.

The Imperial had been in shock at her sudden escape, but now he started to yell at the top of his lungs.

' _Runner! We've got a runner over here!'_

Chaos broke out around her all over again, but she didn't waste time looking back. She ignored the various aches in her body and the searing in her lungs and focused all of her energy on making it to the tree line.

She was certain she was going to make it. She was certain, right up to the point where a different Imperial soldier tackled her back and knocked her to the ground, hitting her head on a rock jutting up from the soil, and everything went spinning into black.


	2. Chapter 2

When she came to, the first thing she registered was the pain in her head. It was threatening to make her sick to her stomach—and the rocking and swaying wasn't helping anything.

Then she thought to question the rocking and the swaying. She focused her ears over the pounding between them, and other noises started to come in. The creaking of wood. The trundling of wheels on stone. The nickering of horses and the _clip-clop_ of hooves.

She was confused for several moments, the pieces refusing to fall into place. And then she remembered how she'd come to be unconscious at all, and all at once, she realized it.

She was in the back of a carriage.

She could feel daylight trying to stab through her lids and into her throbbing eyes; they must have driven straight through the night. She needed to find out where she was.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes to the harsh light of day, immediately letting out a vicious oath as the pain in her head struck her like a hammer. She tried to block the sun's rays with her hands, but they were tied behind her now. And she'd opened her eyes for nothing—all she could see was trees passing by. She let her lids close again.

Suddenly, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a male voice.

'Hey...you there, kinsman.'

So she wasn't alone in the wagon? She groaned, not daring to open her eyes again. Whoever was talking to her could wait.

'Hey! Sell-sword!'

Her eyes snapped open again after all.

'You're finally awake!'

When she turned her head, she came face to face with the picturesque definition of what most people thought of when they heard the word 'Nord'. A man sat across from her on the other side of the cart with his hands bound in front of him, staring at her intently. He was tall and muscled, with thick and partially braided blonde hair falling loose on either side of a chiseled face, and the eyes that met hers were a deep, dark blue. He was wearing a tattered Stormcloak cuirass—so he must've been part of the group in the forest.

When she was silent, he spoke again.

'I was starting to think those bastards hit you too hard.'

She grimaced then, eyes flashing angrily. 'I'm starting to think they did, too.'

He grinned. 'We Nords are heartier than Imperials give us credit for.' Then his smile faded, and he looked curious again. 'You're the one that was on your way to Riften, right?'

She nodded, and then winced as her head gave another ugly throb.

He let loose a frustrated sigh and shook his head. 'You were a sitting duck, same as us. We didn't notice those damn soldiers until they were right on top of us.'

'They didn't seem to care much when I told them I wasn't with you.' She couldn't keep all of the hostility out of her voice, but instead of offended, he looked sympathetic.

'It's a gods damned shame, to be certain. But that's the Empire for you.' He lifted his bound hands then, and pointed to the space ahead of them. 'That poncy little Breton you were travelling with is in one of the wagons up ahead. He cried for hours...a real lion, that one.' The sarcasm laced heavily through his voice, and at the thought of the noble, she made a sound of disgust.

And then he sobered up significantly, eyes searching hers again. 'Did you know what he was up to, when you agreed to bring him here? Carrying all that dark elf trash?'

She winced. So they knew about the Skooma. If even a fellow prisoner was asking her about it, there was no doubt in her mind that her captors knew it too.

'Not at all,' she growled. 'That little pissant lied to me. I had no idea what he was up to. I'd only just found out when we ran into your group. That was why I was being so harsh with him.' She thought for a second about what an asshole her client had been, and shook her head. 'One reason why, anyway.'

He nodded, as if he'd had his suspicions confirmed. 'I figured as much. You didn't seem the type, you know? Shifty.' Then he shrugged. 'Of course, they say that the best ones _don't_ look shifty, even when they are. Maybe that's why they suspected you as soon as they looked in his bags.' He scowled. 'But there was still no honor in them taking all your gear. Damned thieves.'

 _Taking all her—?_ Oh, for the love of the gods! It was only then that she noticed that her armor, weapons, and rucksack were all gone, everything she'd had, taken. She was wearing nothing but the cotton underclothes that protected her skin from her armor, so thin it was a wonder—or an embarrassment—that she hadn't noticed them earlier. She wasn't even wearing shoes.

Another wave of white hot anger went coursing through her then, and she let loose a string of expletives so loud that it caught the attention of the Imperial driving the carriage.

'Shut up back there!'

If her hands were free, she would've ripped the driver's head off. Instead she bit her lip until she nearly drew blood, and breathed through her nose until she felt a semblance of calm. The Nord man sat there staring at her. Her things being taken was obviously news to her, and his sympathetic look had grown noticeably more intense. Finally, she spoke again.

'My things...do you know where...?' Perhaps she could take her gear back by force, as soon as her hands were untied.

He nodded. 'You know the Empire. Bloody pack-rats. They took most of your things and stored them in one of the carts up ahead. Can't be sure which, though.'

Hope and excitement were burning in her gut, but his next words dashed them both.

'But I don't think you'll have much luck getting it back. They threw it in a chest, with a heavy lock. I don't see how you'd get it open without the key.'

 _So that was it, then._ As his words sank in, she slumped in defeat, her eyes clicking shut as they burned with bitter anger.

Neither of them spoke for several moments, and then she heard him clear his throat.

'Hey...I'm sorry about your things getting taken. My name is Ralof. I hail from Riverwood. What do they call you by?'

She sighed. What was the point in being guarded now? She opened her eyes to look at him.

'My name is Merrin.'

'Oho!' He smiled again, despite their obviously grim situation. 'Finally, someone friendly to talk to on this endless ride. You've been out all night. They had this horse-thief in the wagon when they nabbed us.' He jerked his head to his left. 'And I tried to ask him his name, but he wouldn't give it to me. Now him, _he's_ a shifty one.'

Cursing herself thoroughly for not being more observant, she turned to look down the length of the carriage, and saw not one but two other people inside.

Immediately to her right sat a hulking Nord, with a mane of honey colored hair. He was dressed in finery, with a cloak of raven's feathers on his broad and muscled back. As if he felt her stare, he turned his head to meet her eyes, and she saw that his were a clear and daunting grey. She also saw that he was gagged with linen wraps, and incapable of speaking at all. Their eyes held for several moments, and there was a proud spirit in his steely gaze that would've made her suspect he was of high birth, even if he'd been wearing rags.

The other man in the cart was less formidable. He _was_ dressed in rags, but they seemed to actually belong to him. He sat on Ralof's side of the carriage, several feet away from him. He had a much slighter build than the other two, and roughly chopped brown hair that fell to his chin. He was staring angrily at Ralof, and he _did_ look decidedly shifty to her. So this was the horse-thief, then.

Up until then, the man had been sitting in the cart so quietly that she hadn't noticed he was there. But Ralof's comment seemed to have angered him, and he twisted on the bench to face them.

' _Damn_ you Stormcloaks.' His dark eyes narrowed to slits. 'Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.'

Then he shifted his gaze over to her before Ralof could say anything. 'You there! Merrin, you said? You and me, we shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.'

He was trying to seem angry, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw fear at their core. Across from her, Ralof scoffed.

'We're all brothers and sisters in binds _now_ , thief.'

'Hey!' The carriage driver again, sounding irked this time. 'I said shut up back there!'

Both men looked like they had more to say, but reluctantly feel into silence. For a few minutes they only sat as they were carried steadily down the road; even though she spent the time trying her best to discern where they were, the jagged rockfaces and coniferous trees didn't give her any clues.

The thief was the first one to break the silence.

'What's wrong with _him_ , huh?' With his bound hands, he was gesturing to the gagged man beside her.

Ralof's eyes lit up in anger. 'Watch your tongue,' he barked. 'You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak—the true High King!'

Her stomach lurched. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm? Leader of the rebellion in Skyrim?

She turned her head again to look at him with new eyes, and saw that he held his head high. He regarded the people in the wagon around him now with his back stiff and eyes burning. Embracing recognition.

Looked like she'd been right about him being high-born. But what on earth was he doing here? Worry had started to churn in her gut as a realization hit her. A second later, as if he'd read her mind, the horse-thief spoke her concerns aloud.

'Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But _you're_ the leader of the rebellion! If they've captured _you_...Oh gods.' His anger had vanished like smoke on the wind, and now he only sounded horrified. 'Oh gods, where are they taking us?!'

For the first time since she'd woken up, Ralof sounded nothing but haggard, and his exhaustion showed through. 'I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits.'

'No.' The thief railed back as if Ralof had slapped him, eyes alight with growing terror. 'This can't be happening. This isn't happening!' He bent forward suddenly, curling in on himself as he brought his bound hands to his face, and started rocking back and forth.

Merrin looked at him with pity, but didn't know what to say. Worry gnawed at her stomach like a rat; if what Ralof said was true, then they all had serious problems. She had no intention of dying, that much was a fact. But how would she prevent it? She _had_ to find a way to escape.

Silence had fallen over the cart again, aside from the thief's rapid breathing, and as they rode, Merrin looked around. It turned out that their wagon was the last in the line; about ten feet behind them, a Nord Imperial brought up the rear on horseback—probably to take care of anybody who thought to throw themselves off of a wagon.

Her hands had gone numb a long time ago behind her, and she doubted she could use them for anything. Even if she could use them, there was nothing to use them _for_ ; the cart was devoid of anything that might help her.

She'd really gotten herself into it this time.

The sun had risen steadily higher into the sky as they'd driven, and now it was past it's zenith. How much farther did they have to go? If she had to sit here much longer completely powerless, she thought she'd lose her mind.

It had been silent for a _very_ long time when suddenly, Ralof spoke.

'Hey. What village are you from, horse-thief?'

The dark haired man had fallen silent long ago, but he'd never sat back up. At Ralof's words he turned his head, and his dark eyes were full of anger.

'Why do you care?' he hissed.

Ralof shrugged his shoulders and looked sorrowful. 'A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.'

The thief had clearly been expecting some other response, and the one he actually got seemed to hit him hard. His shoulders sagged and his expression was pitiful, and it wrenched at something in Merrin's heart.

'...Rorikstead,' he whispered at last. 'I'm from Rorikstead.'

'And what of you, Merrin?' Ralof looked over at her. 'From where do you hail?'

She only shook her head at him, her chest feeling tight. No matter what his sensibilities were, home was one thing she refused to think about. She couldn't afford to, now.

He seemed to understand, though, because he didn't press her further.

Another melancholy wave of silence overtook them, but she refused to be dragged down into its depths. She ignored the pain in her head and kept her eyes sharp for any thing, any distraction that would give her a moment's upper hand. Any chance of escape.

After another few minutes, the road sloped decisively downhill, and shortly after that, they rounded a bend in the road. All of a sudden, the front gates of a village loomed not far ahead, and the carriages were all being driven inside. As their carriage finally passed through the gates, she heard yet another Imperial guard call down from a watch-tower above.

'General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!'

Her stomach lurched violently all over again at hearing Ralof's suspicions confirmed, and a voice who's owner she couldn't see called back from somewhere to her right.

'Good. Let's get this over with.'

On the other side of the cart, the horse-thief's eyes were blown wide with panic, and he dove head-first into a feverish, muttered prayer. 'Shor. Mara. Dibella. Kynareth. Akatosh! Divines, please help me...'

Desperation wanted to flicker to life inside of her, but she mercilessly tamped it down. What good would it do her here?

The carriage was being steered down the main road, and none of it was familiar to her. This wasn't a village she'd ever been to before. Suddenly Ralof straightened in his seat, eyes blazing as he looked to their right.

' _Look_ at him. General Tullius, the _military governor_.' He spat the words out as if they were poison.

'And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves,' he snarled. 'I bet they have something to do with this!'

It was then that Merrin got her first chance to look at Tullius. She saw a grey-haired Imperial man of average height in gleaming armor, with a flowing cape of crimson at his back. He stood talking to a member of the Aldmeri Dominion, a female on horseback in black satin robes. Before she could take in anything else, the wall of a building cut off her view.

'This is Helgen,' Ralof offered, regaining her attention. 'I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in...' His eyes were far away and full of sorrow, and something about them made her tremble. It was as if he'd given up on living, and was only reflecting before the inevitability of death.

'It's funny,' he continued in a mirthless voice. 'When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.'

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—when the voice of a child hit her ears.

'Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?'

She whipped her head around.

A young boy in a red tunic sat cross-legged on the porch of what appeared to be an inn, and his eyes followed the carts with interest. He wasn't alone; a man and woman, presumably his parents, stood on either side of him, and they leaned against the porch railing as they watched the procession go by.

For a moment, she met the father's eyes, and then a shadow passed over his features. He turned to look down at his son and frowned.

'Go inside, little cub.'

Internally, Merrin approved of this man, a stranger she'd never met. No child should see what was going to happen here.

The boy's voice was plaintive. 'But why? I wanna watch the soldiers!'

'Inside the house, now.' Their voices were fading as the carriage drew further away, but she could hear that his tone brooked no argument, and soon the boy conceded defeat. 'Yes, pa.'

She craned her head to look behind them, and could just make out the boy as he closed the door to the inn behind him.

A moment later, the carriage slowed significantly, and then lurched to a halt.

'Why are we stopping?' the horse-thief asked, his voice high and full of fear.

Ralof sighed. 'Why do you think? End of the line.'

' _Move it_!' A harsh female voice rang out to their left, and when Merrin looked she saw that it was the first Imperial woman she'd seen since this whole thing started, and she was ushering prisoners out of the carts that'd already settled. Ragged Stormcloak men and woman jumped miserably from the backs of the carriages in single file, hands bound in front of them, faces streaked with mud.

Soon it was their turn to get shuffled along.

'Let's go,' Ralof said bitterly. 'Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.'

Merrin was the last to leave the cart, and when she stood, she almost toppled over again; it had been ages since she'd sat for so long without moving, and her knees screamed in tandem with her head as she hopped down to the ground. Ralof moved to steady her, but she shook her head at him.

'No, wait! We're not rebels!' The horse-thief yelled at the Commander as she passed in front of them.

'We weren't even with them! Ask them, they'll tell you!' But his desperate pleas were coldly ignored.

Ralof nudged him from behind. 'Face your death with some courage, thief. The Empire's made it's decision.'

'He isn't wrong to say it, though,' she hissed, as anger bubbled fresh inside her.

The Commander stood in front of the group, about twenty five people in all, and addressed them as a whole.

'Step to the block when we call your name from the list. One at a time!'

'Empire loves their damn lists,' Ralof muttered.

A Nord Imperial stepped up to meet them then, and she recognized him as the man who'd been bringing up the procession's rear. He was holding a quill and a sheaf of parchment, and he looked at it before he started calling out names. Evidently, he'd started with the final cart.

'Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.'

Every Stormcloak there stood up straight with pride as Ulfric stepped forward and out of their midst. Many of them cheered, and Ralof shouted after him. 'It has been an _honor_ , Jarl Ulfric!'

'Ralof of Riverwood.'

Ralof turned to her and nodded, blue eyes flashing, before he walked over to join his Jarl. She only stared after him for a moment before her eyes glued themselves back to the man holding the list.

'Lokir of Rorikstead.'

 _So_ that's _what his name is,_ she thought. But when Lokir heard his name called, he broke.

'No, I'm not a rebel,' he cried frantically. 'You can't do this!' And with that, he shoved his way past the people in front of him and broke off at a run down the road. She'd been thinking of doing the exact same thing if she saw an opportune moment present itself, and for a wild second she considered veering off in the opposite direction while he caused a distraction. But he wasn't a distraction for long.

When he didn't listen to the Commander yelling for him to halt, she called for her archers to fire on him, and they cut him down with half a dozen arrows to the back. He fell to the cobbled road in a heap, and was immediately still.

The Commander whipped her head back to face the group, savage triumph shining in her eyes.

'Anybody else feel like _running_?'

A nervous silence descended over the crowd, and her heart picked up in her chest. The reality of her situation was slamming into her like a boulder.

Suddenly, the man with the list looked at her, confused. 'Wait,' he called. 'You, step forward.'

Staring at him sullenly, keenly aware of the Commander and her archers watching every step she took, Merrin did as she was told.

He looked her over. 'Who...are you?'

'I'm innocent,' she deadpanned. 'I'm not a rebel.'

'That wasn't the question,' the Commander snapped. 'We already have your charge written up. Tell the soldier your name!'

She glared at him, and noted that he seemed put out.

'Your name?' he asked, more gently than before.

'Merrin.'

'And your surname?'

She gritted her teeth, and spoke angrily through them. 'Hakonsdotter.'

He used the quill to scratch down what she'd given him, and then looked up at her again.

'And from where do you hail?'

'None of your gods damned business.' And she spit at him, watching in satisfaction as it hit him in the face.

The Commander stormed forward then, and boxed her in the ear, making it boom and then ring, dazing her and causing her head to throb nauseatingly. She fell to her knees, and the woman grabbed her by her undershirt and dragged her to her feet again.

'Tell the man from where you hail!'

Merrin was about to spit at the Commander too when the man with the list interrupted.

'Captain, what should we do? She wasn't on the list. Neither of them.'

'Forget the list.' The Imperial woman's face twisted in disgust, and she roughly let Merrin go, nearly toppling her again. 'She goes to the block.'

Her eyes met with the man's as he wiped her spit from his face, and rather than seeming vindictive, his face held plain regret and unease.

'You picked a terrible time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland.'

She was all out of words to spare for him, and she stared at him coldly in silence.

One by one, he named the rest of the prisoners standing there, and they shuffled forward to wait by the chopping block. When the man was finished with the list, he handed it to the Commander.

General Tullius came striding up to them then, and she finally got a good look at his tan, weathered face. The Commander handed him the lists she'd just been given, and he gave them the barest of glances before he procured a list of his own. From this, he rattled off the charges.

For twenty one Stormcloak soldiers, the charge of treason against the Empire by participating in the Stormcloak rebellion. For the now-deceased Lokir of Rorikstead, the charge of horse theft. For herself, and one Dalan Dufont of Morrowind, the charge of possession of illicit substances with the intent to sell, and racketeering profit for the rebel war effort.

She didn't have to say a word about how the charge was horseshit—Dufont started gibbering all over again after the charge was laid about how it was all a big mistake, all a misunderstanding, if they would only hold him and contact his parents...

The Commander yelled for silence after a few seconds of his groveling, and apparently he was sufficiently cowed by the woman, because he fell sniffling but silent.

Tullius cleared his throat and continued. 'And finally...' he walked directly up to where Ulfric Stormcloak stood, and tipped his chin up to look the hulking Nord in the eye.

'Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.'

Ulfric obviously attempted then to make some reply, but it came out as nothing more than a growling behind the linen gags.

'You started this war,' Tullius continued. 'Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace! As ambassador of Cyrodiil and Military Governor to Jarl Elisif, I hereby charge you with murder and high treason!'

Spectators had long since gathered to watch the trial and executions; at Tullius' words, some of them booed and jeered, and others screamed their approval.

Suddenly, a strange and chilling sound came ringing out from the mountains in front of the town, causing all who'd been making a racket to fall silent. It rolled in strange, metallic waves towards them, and townsfolk and soldiers alike stared at one another dumb-founded—no one present had ever heard such a noise.

The hairs on the back of Merrin's neck were standing on end as the man who'd collected their names looked at the mountain, and the forest. 'What _was_ that?' he asked, sounding nervous.

But Tullius was obviously unconcerned. 'It was nothing,' he said tersely. 'Carry on with it.'

'Yes, General Tullius,' the Commander replied enthusiastically. She turned to the priestess of Arkay, standing in sunset-colored robes beside the headsman. 'Give them their last rites.'

The priestess stepped obediently forward, and raised her hands up to the sky. At the same moment, the Commander shoved one of the Stormcloaks ahead of the group, and he started walking to the block.

'As we commend your souls to Aetherius,' she began in a dreamy voice, 'blessings of the Eight Divines be upon you—'

'For the love of Talos,' he cut in sharply. 'Shut up. Let's get this over with.'

It didn't come as a surprise to many that a Stormcloak soldier would scorn last rites in which his patron god had been deliberately excluded, but the priestess herself seemed terribly offended. She faltered, hands falling jerkily back down to her sides, and she scrunched up her face to peer down her nose at him.

'As you wish,' she huffed.

'Come on,' he shouted at the Commander. 'I haven't got all morning!'

The Commander shoved the Stormcloak soldier down onto his knees at the block, and then put a foot in his back so that he had no choice but to kneel.

He had a shock of red hair, and for a split second, her mind conjured up a picture of her father at the wooden block. And then she shoved back against the thought with all her strength, and the man's face turned back into a stranger's.

She didn't want to see what came next; what was happening wasn't right. It was one thing to die fighting for what you believed in—it was another thing entirely to be executed for it.

Mercifully, he turned his face from the crowd, but Merrin closed her eyes anyway.

'My ancestors are smiling at _me_ , Imperials,' she heard him say. 'Can you say the same?'

A second later she heard the axe come down with a sickening thud, and the collective gasp as the crowd drew in breath. Somebody burst into tears.

'You Imperial bastards!' A woman cried.

'Justice!'

'Death to the Stormcloaks!'

Then Ralof spoke softly. 'As fearless in death as he was in life.'

She forced herself to open her eyes. Imperial soldiers were dragging away the body. The head was still sitting in the block's catching basket.

For the first time since she'd been captured, she couldn't push down her fear or desperation.

When the Commander levelled a finger at her, her heart started thundering against her ribs.

'This one next!'

Before anybody could make another move, however, the same strange and horrible sound came rolling down the mountains again—this time at a much closer range. People in the crowd shuffled uncomfortably and muttered to one another; what in the world was that noise?

'There it is again,' said the list maker, sounding earnestly worried now. 'Did you hear that?'

'I _said_ , next prisoner,' the Commander snapped.

'It was good to know you, Hakonsdotter.' From behind her, Ralof's voice entered her ear in a whisper, and she nodded to him without turning around. She lurched forward then on watery legs. It occurred to her that she should pray, but she couldn't figure which gods to pray to. She had the feeling that they weren't listening, anyway.

No weapons at her disposal. No way to free her hands. No escape route. No way to evade the archers. Surrounded on all sides by people who wanted her dead.

It sank in for the first time for Merrin that she might not be escaping Helgen alive, and as it did, as she arrived at the block, her surroundings disappeared. She stopped seeing the glint of the headsman's axe, the grimy faces of the other prisoners, the glittering eyes of the townspeople, and the terrified fascination of Dalan Dufont.

As the Commander shoved her to her knees, she was staring not at the stone tower in front of her or the blue sky above, but inward, at the faces of her parents.

Her father, so dear to her, with his fiery red hair and his twinkling blue eyes, hammer in hand as he smiled and beckoned to her. And her mother, much hazier, looking much more like she did; olive skin and a broad smile, long dark hair falling over her shoulders as her brown eyes danced and she reached for her.

She barely felt the booted foot in her back, pushing her down. Didn't react to her face connecting with the hot, irony puddle of the Stormcloak's blood.

Soon she'd be with people she'd been missing for a very long time, and she could think of worse fates than that.

She closed her eyes for what she figured would be the last time.

It was then that they heard the booming roar.


	3. Chapter 3

It was such an impossibly loud sound that every muscle in Merrin's body tensed and her eyes came flying open, frantically searching the tower and the forest and the sky in her view. She must have just missed something truly horrifying, because suddenly Tullius was no longer stoic.

'What in _Oblivion_ was _that_?' he yelled.

'Sentries.' There was a tremor in the Commander's voice all of a sudden. 'What do you see?'

'It's in the clouds,' one of the sentries shouted back helplessly.

But it didn't stay hidden in the clouds very long. From directly above Merrin she heard the great flapping of what turned out to be massive wings, and then all at once a monster landed on the top of the Keep's nearest tower.

She gasped. The creature perched above her was massive. It dug long, ebony claws into the old mortar and stone as it folded wings as black as night against a hard, scaly body so darkly iridescent that it shimmered purple in the sunlight. It stretched out a long neck to look down at the astonished and petrified crowds, and she saw that its eyes were glowing crimson.

She sucked in another astonished breath. Her father had read her stories, and...this thing looked just like a—

' _Dragon!'_ The terrified voice of a female Stormcloak rang out over the stunned silent gathering, and Merrin's thoughts were finished for her.

That settled it. As soon as that Stormcloak gave voice to the fears of several people in the crowd, Tullius raised a hand and cued the trembling archers. 'Fire at will,' he shouted.

But the dragon was faster than any of them. Up until that moment it had been staring intently at the crowds, but now it stared straight at Merrin, the ruby red coals of its glowing eyes burning directly into hers. And then, without ceremony, it turned its huge head ever so slightly to the side and released a gout of flame that shot three feet to her left and killed the headsman instantly.

Several people screamed, and the first of the archers fired. Their arrows bounced ineffectually off of the shimmering midnight scales...and then the dragon Shouted.

A terrible wave of thundering shock that made every hair on Merrin's body stand on end came rippling from the dragon's maw, and the archers were blasted several yards back. One of them broke his neck, and crumpled into a still heap. Then the dragon took off with a lurch, wings coming unfurled like oily black sails, and went swooping back into the air with another mighty roar.

In that instant, chaos erupted.

People started to scream and yell, and took off running in all directions—somebody leaped right over her where she was kneeling and kept on sprinting into the woods. The Commander started belting out orders to her and Tullius' troops, the sound of her voice nearly drowned out by the dragon releasing another burst of flame, and then the telltale wooshing crackle of those flames taking root. Somewhere, a baby let out a keening wail, and then there was a splintering shriek as something wooden collapsed to the ground. Behind her, Tullius bellowed.

'Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!'

And the people around her scattered.

For a moment, she was petrified by her sheer disbelief. But then she yanked sharply on her focus, and pulled herself back together.

Evidently, the Imperials had forgotten about separating her head from her shoulders, and now was her chance to escape. She was about to push herself to her feet, when she felt herself being dragged to them.

It was Ralof, his blue eyes wild and his bindings already cut. 'Come on, Merrin,' he yelled. 'Let's go! The gods won't give us another chance!'

She didn't need to be told twice, and she was hot on his heels as he took off running across the courtyard. Above them, the sky was swirling and turning a murky, unnatural red, and when she looked behind her she saw that several of the town's buildings were on fire. The dragon had been busy.

'Come on, into the Keep! Hurry, hurry!'

Ralof had led her to a second stone tower, and when he shoved open the timbered oak door, she quickly followed him through it. He slammed it behind her, and the sounds of the battle outside infinitesimally dimmed, but a second later something crashed against the door, splintering the wood and making them all jump.

When nothing came barreling through the door, he rounded on someone to their left.

'A dragon,' he gasped. 'A real live dragon! Jarl Ulfric, could the legends be true?!'

And when she turned her head, she saw that Ulfric _was_ in the room with them. He stood tall and broad, with his gags removed and his bindings cut, and as he looked over at Ralof he looked nothing short of regal.

' _Legends_ don't burn down villages, Ralof.' His voice was husky and deeply timbered, and it had a quality to it that pricked her with annoyance—something she couldn't quite place.

'What should we do, then? Where do we go?' But at the moment, she had no interest in the two men's conversation, and instead she took in her surroundings.

The room they stood in was standard for a turret in a Keep. Stone from floor to ceiling, and round, with a curving staircase along the far wall. What captured her attention was the fourth person in the room.

A terribly wounded Stormcloak woman lay gasping on the floor. She was moaning quietly and clutching her abdomen, and her eyes were shiny and glazed. Merrin could see immediately that she'd lost a lot of blood, and her skin was waxen white.

Anger surged in her gut for the Jarl of Windhelm; how long had he been hiding in here, watching this woman suffer? She turned her head to stare at them, and saw that Ulfric had started speeching, oblivious to the woman in front of her. And Ralof was no better; he stood listening raptly to every word, and noticed nothing of what lay in front of him.

 _Idiots._ Not wanting to waste another second, she clambered down awkwardly to kneel on the floor.

'I have healing magic,' she said to the woman, trying to make her voice gentle. 'I'm going to help you now.'

The soldier only gurgled and moaned.

She had to bite back a curse when she went to use her hands and remembered that they were still bound behind her, and she fell awkwardly onto her backside before scooting up to the woman, back first. She craned her head back over her shoulder to see what she was doing, and pushed the wounded woman's hands out of her way.

She had some sort of deep gash, and Merrin couldn't figure where or how she'd gotten it in the chaos of the dragon attack. She placed her hands on the woman's skin and cast Healing Hands, and started to let the magic flow through her.

It was a strong spell, and it worked quickly; the bleeding stopped, internal damage was mended, and skin knit back together, all at a rate that would've been alarming to most anybody. Merrin pulled her hands away, and shuffled to turn around.

A bit of color had returned to the woman's face as she healed, and now she met Merrin's eyes, looking astonished. She moved her hands frantically over the smooth, unblemished abdomen that had moments before housed a seeping gash.

'You've lost a lot of blood,' she reminded the woman. 'But at least now you stand a chance at surviving long enough to escape.'

'I don't know how to thank you,' the Stormcloak stammered.

'Thank me by getting out of Helgen alive.'

A moment later she felt herself being tugged to her feet yet again, and Ralof's voice by her ear. 'Come on, it's time to move! We have to get out of here!'

The men had obviously come up with some kind of plan while she'd been occupied, because he ushered her up the stairs, with the others not far behind. As she neared the top she saw another red-headed Stormcloak, trying to pick a locked door.

'There're proper weapons to fight with in here,' he shouted. 'I know it! As soon as I get this open, we can—'

She was mere steps from the top when the wall to her right exploded. Rubble went slamming into the man at the door, pinning him painfully, and before anyone could twitch a muscle, the head of the dragon came through the hole and into the tower. It peered with cruel crimson eyes at the man trapped in the rocks, and then it opened its mouth and roasted him alive.

'Jarn! Noo!'

Ralof's yell attracted the dragon's attention, and it did its best to kill more of them by sending another gout of flame down the stairs that they barely managed to avoid. Then it released the building and left as quickly as it had come, returning its attention to the town at large.

The smell of burnt flesh hit her nose, and she gagged. Ralof led her to the edge of the smoking, gaping hole, cursing as they stepped over chunks of rock.

'See that inn over there? The hole in the roof? You're going to have to jump!'

Merrin looked at Ralof like he'd sprouted another head. 'Are you crazy?' she shouted. 'That's a twenty foot fall, at least! I'll break my legs!'

'The door is blocked,' he shouted back at her. 'It's your only chance! Jump through the hole, run through the inn, make your way outside from there! We'll join you when we can!'

'But you haven't even cut my binds!'

'There's no time! Go, now, Merrin! Talos guide you!'

It was absolutely crazy, but every second she lingered was a second wasted, another second towards sealing her fate. She took a deep breath as she backed up several paces, and then ran full speed at the hole in the wall. At the edge she leaped with all her strength.

Her heart was hammering madly as she flew through the air. The fall was more like thirty feet, and as the roof of the inn rushed up to meet her, she was sure she was about to die painfully. But she didn't; she passed through a hole in the thatched roof that was still burning at the edges, and landed hard on the wooden planked floor inside. The shock of the landing reverberated up her legs, and her joints and muscles screamed in protest. She stumbled and fell, and had to struggle back to her feet, breathing hard.

The building was on fire, the air thick with smoke, and she choked on the fumes as she started to run, dropping through a hole in the floor to the ground level, and then running through the broken door.

Outside, Helgen was nothing short of apocalyptic.

The sky was a swirling red and brown mass, and fiery comets were hurtling from the otherworldly storm to crash down onto the village below, crushing houses, killing people, spreading the path of the all-consuming fire. The dragon had called down actual brimstone.

She ran forward amidst the utter chaos, no real plan in mind, and moaned when she saw that the carts that might've held her gear had long ago caught fire, the horses either running free or lying dead, still hitched to the carts. She changed course abruptly, cursing as she went, and veered to her right. Her current priority was to free her hands.

She hadn't run far when she came to the smouldering ruins of another house. There were two men crouching behind the wall nearest her, and she froze when she recognized one of them as the man she'd spat on. Would he try to apprehend her again?

But neither man had noticed her. The list-maker was beckoning, and calling out to someone.

'Haming, you need to get over here now!'

She looked over his shoulder from where she stood, and easily recognized the little boy who'd wanted to watch the procession go by. His tunic was torn now, and his face streaked with soot. His father had fallen, badly wounded, and the boy was trying fruitlessly to drag him to safety.

'There's no time, Haming!' The man sounded desperate. 'It's coming. Leave me!'

Merrin looked up and saw that the boy's father was right. The dragon was gliding in an arc towards them, and would be on them any second now.

'Listen to your pa, boy!' The older man behind the house called out.

'But, pa!'

' _Go!_ '

The dragon landed in front of them then, and the boy seemed to realize that his choices were move or die, because he let go of his father and sprinted towards them, leaping into the list-maker's waiting arms and getting pulled behind the safety of the wall in the same moment that the scaled beast blasted his father—and the whole street behind him—with spewing flame. And then he flew off with a roar that sounded eerily like laughter.

'Gods, no! Torolf!' But it was too late.

The young boy sobbed in the Nord Imperial's arms. It was then that the man spun around, face taut with anguish, and finally noticed her. He stared at her hard for one full second, and then called out to her.

'Still alive, kinsman? Stick with me if you want to stay that way.' He slid the boy out of his arms and down to the ground, and ushered him over to the older Imperial. Then he drew his sword and held it at his side.

'Gunnar, take care of the boy! I need to find General Tullius and join the defense.'

The older man nodded, looking grave. 'Gods guide you, Hadvar.' He took the boy's hand, and drew his own sword.

The man who was apparently named Hadvar looked back at her then, and gestured with his free hand. 'Let's go!'

She had no interest in joining any defense. But she couldn't just stay where she was, so she followed.

They ran down the main street of the village, smouldering and in ruins, past the dead body of Haming's father. They rounded a corner and ran down an alley comprising of a stone wall and a collapsing building, when suddenly Hadvar threw a hand out to stop her, staring at the sky.

'Stay close to the wall,' he shouted.

So she crouched as he did, and huddled to the hot stone. A second later there was a mighty crunch as the dragon landed on the top of the very wall at their backs, digging its cruel talons into the stone. It surveyed the scene in front of it, but failed to notice them. Maw opening, it released a gout of hair-raising flame that scattered the people who'd been fighting in front of them, and then it flew off with a whistling hiss.

They took off at a run again, weaving through the remains of a house so destroyed it wasn't much more than a frame. They passed a wounded man sitting down in the street, calling out for the soldiers beside him to tell his family that he'd fought the dragon bravely.

From the looks of him, Hadvar was realizing quickly that there _was_ no organized defense to join. General Tullius was nowhere in sight, and his soldiers were scattered, fighting and fleeing in equal numbers.

He came to a halt and looked back at her, teeth gritted.

'What do we do now?' she asked. Panic was tightening her chest, her head was throbbing with pain, and the smell of the charred dead was nearly making her sick.

'It looks like it's just you and me. Come on!'

They hurtled around yet another corner, both gasping for air through the fiery fumes, and passed through a stone archway in the wall.

The dragon was nearby to their left, great wings beating as it hovered in place and surveyed the wreckage; suddenly it opened its mouth, and a terrible language she'd never heard rumbled from the depths of its chest. The monster was talking.

' _Zu'u nis dir, pahlok joor!'_

The words struck a chord somewhere deep inside of her, but she couldn't say why. They were meaningless, and yet...

Suddenly a figure emerged from some rubble farther up the road, and as they approached, she saw that it was Ralof. In another moment, the three of them were face to face.

'Ralof, you damned traitor!' Hadvar snarled. 'Out of my way!'

Ralof was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his expression was defiant as he looked at the other man. 'We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time!'

 _So they knew each other already?_

Ralof turned to her. 'Come on, Merrin, we're leaving! You can come with us!'

'Oh no,' Hadvar cut in. 'You can't trust this backstabber. Come with me, and we'll make it out together.'

The men glared at each other, and for a moment Merrin was torn.

Hadvar was an Imperial soldier who had just participated, however indirectly, in her near execution. But Ralof had directed her to jump out of a burning building without so much as freeing her hands, and had called it 'safety'. Ralof had stood and ignored a dying comrade while he listened to Ulfric conjecture...Hadvar had endeavoured to save a child. In the end, she turned to him.

'I'm going to stay with Hadvar,' she announced.

Ralof cursed. 'Fine then, good luck to you.' He met Hadvar's eyes, and there was true dislike burning there. 'I hope that dragon takes all you Imperial bastards to Sovngarde!'

He took off at a run, two other Stormcloaks flanking him, and Hadvar turned to her.

'C'mon,' he shouted. 'Into the Keep! We've got no time to lose!'

* * *

The room they ran into was empty save for them, and Hadvar let out a ragged sigh. 'Looks like we're the only ones who've made it inside.'

He turned to look at her then, and they gave each other a serious once-over. Merrin knew she must've looked like something out of a nightmare. Then he looked at her arms drawn behind her back, and started guiltily.

'Oh, by the Eight. You poor woman. Let me see if I can cut you loose.'

 _Finally!_ Her feelings toward the Imperial soldier warmed considerably as he drew a dagger from his belt and freed her hands from their dingy ropes. Immediately, she started rubbing the feeling back into her tingling wrists.

'It's a wonder you made it this far with your hands tied like that. I'm sorry I didn't think of it sooner.' He sounded genuinely apologetic, and she gave him a small smile.

'It's good enough that I'm finally untied.'

He straightened up and squared his shoulders. 'We'd better keep moving.'

'What do you suggest?'

He gestured to the room around them. 'Let's take a look around this room. I've been to Helgen Keep many times before. If we're going to find you some gear to wear, it'll most likely be from here. See what you can find, quickly.' Suddenly, he winced. 'In the meantime, I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns.'

It was then that she noticed for the first time that his left hand and forearm were badly burned, skin broken and glistening. She shook her head at him.

'You don't need to find anything. I can heal us both.'

With her hands free, she made short work of his injuries, moving her glowing palms over his grisly burns until the skin was pink and healed over. While he stammered his thanks, she pressed a palm to the side of her head where the rock had connected, and the wonderful warmth of the restorative magic battled her vicious headache until it was gone. Blinking, she let her hand drop, and then she looked up at him.

'I couldn't have gone much further without healing, anyway. _Now_ we can look for some gear.'

With the two of them looking, it wasn't long before they had some luck; this room was clearly a barrack of some sort, with torches flickering in sconces on walls lined with used-looking beds, and chests at the feet that were full of armor and small weapons. On her third try, Merrin found some Imperial leather armor that had clearly belonged to another woman, and she pulled it on over her underclothes and buckled up the sides just as Hadvar discovered a sword she could use. It was far from a perfect fit, and impeded the range of her sword arm some. But it would definitely do. After sheathing the sword in a scabbard at her hip, they took off through the opposite door.

'Do you know the way?'

'I'm pretty sure I do. Follow me.' He shuddered. 'That thing is still out there somewhere.'

They ran down a long flagstone corridor, turning several corners, stopping once to pull the chain to lift a portcullis door that blocked their path.

Suddenly, they heard voices up ahead.

'We need to get _moving_ , Petra,' a male voice shouted. 'That dragon is tearing up the entire Keep!'

'Just give me...a minute,' a woman answered, sounding winded. 'I'm out of breath.'

They pressed themselves against the stone wall, and Hadvar turned to meet her eyes.

'Stormcloaks,' he whispered. 'Come on. Maybe we can reason with them.'

It impressed her that he wasn't eager to spill enemy blood. But she said nothing, and only crept alongside him.

As it happened, the Stormcloaks were not willing to be reasoned with. Hadvar had entered the room with his weapon sheathed and his hands up and open, calling to them that they meant no harm. But Ulfric's soldiers had attacked anyway.

Merrin's stomach had churned as she'd finally brought her sword down into the male soldier's neck; they'd been prisoners together, and she had no desire to fight them.

After both Stormcloaks had fallen, Hadvar turned to her with a similar look of regret twisting his features.

'I wish they'd have listened.'

'Me too.'

They passed through a heavy wooden door on the other end of the room and continued on their way.

They were running down an identical stone corridor ( _how on earth was he keeping them straight?)_ when they heard the dragon shriek outside, and a section of the ceiling came crashing down in front of them in a deafening cascade.

'Damn!' Hadvar coughed on the clouds of billowing rock dust. 'That dragon doesn't give up easy. Come on!'

They were forced to detour through one of the side rooms, and found more hostile Stormcloaks inside that they had to fight their way through. From one of these fallen men, Merrin took a longbow and a quiver of iron arrows, and slung both onto her back.

There were health and stamina potions in the storeroom, and they threw them in a sack before they kept on going.

They were starting to head deeper down into the bowels of the Keep, and as they descended a long staircase, Hadvar spoke again.

'The torture rooms are dead ahead. Gods, I wish we didn't need these.'

'Then why participate at all?' she asked sourly.

'I don't. There's no honor in torturing your fellow man. We're coming down here for a reason. If there's a back entrance, the chamber overseer will know about it.'

But a moment later it was obvious to them that the overseer had problems of his own.

They were met with the sounds of battle on the stairs, and upon bursting through the door they saw two men in Imperial armor fighting a group of several Stormcloaks. One was built like an ox and wielding a hammer, and the other, a wizened old man in a deep black cowl, had electricity flying from his fingertips.

Without hesitation, they flew into the fray.

When the last Stormcloak fell dead to the floor, the overseer rounded on the two of them.

'What in Oblivion is going _on_ up there?' he snapped. 'Where did these rebels come from? How did they get all the way down here without being apprehended? Is nobody doing their _job_ in this blasted Keep?'

He stopped then to actually look at them, and took in the gory state of Merrin's face, the blood splattered on her armor. 'And what in the name of the Eight Divines happened to _you_?'

'Do you even know what's happening up there?' Hadvar shouted. 'A _dragon_ is attacking Helgen!'

The overseer scoffed. 'A dragon. Don't waste my time with nonsense, boy.'

Hadvar clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. 'It's not nonsense. If we don't get out of here, the Keep will come down on all of our heads!'

But the older man only sneered. 'There hasn't been a dragon in Skyrim for a thousand years. I should report you for wasting my time.'

'Fine, then.' Merrin turned quickly to look at Hadvar. 'If he doesn't want to listen, we'll leave him behind. We can find the way out ourselves.'

Hadvar blew out a gust of air, nodded his agreement, and the two of them turned to go.

'Wait!'

It was the younger, more muscular torturer. He was clearly more willing to listen than his supervisor, and his eyes were round as saucers as he ran up to them.

'Forget the old man. I'm coming with you!'

They scoured the room quickly for supplies. When Merrin grabbed a knapsack sitting on a stool, the overseer called out to her, voice dripping with bitter disdain.

'Sure, sure. Take _all_ of my things, please!'

They slid their potions into the knapsack and were about to go, when they noticed a dead mage laying on the floor of a locked metal cage.

'Don't bother,' the overseer drawled, a smugness in his voice that made Merrin shudder. 'Lost the key to that cage ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for _weeks_.'

'Don't listen to him,' Hadvar growled, shoving some lock picks into her hand. 'See if you can get the door open, and grab as much as you can. We'll need it.'

A minute later she was sliding a potion of magicka and a spellbook into the rucksack as well, and then she handed it back to him.

'Let's go.'

The three of them ran past the detestable old man, and as they did he called out to them in a jeering voice.

'You won't find a way out, heading _that_ way!'

They ignored him, and ran ahead.

* * *

It hadn't been long before things got worse. A jagged hole in the wall likely caused by the dragon had led them into a vast room in the lowest level of the Keep. It had been crawling with Stormcloaks that attacked them on sight, and the younger Torturer ended up falling in the battle. Merrin had only just dispatched one attacker when she saw Hadvar getting snuck up on by another with a bow. He was preoccupied with a man bellowing and swinging a greatsword, and if she hadn't managed to nock an arrow and loose it into the rebel's back before the Stormcloak had lined up her shot, Hadvar would likely have died. The woman's strangled scream of surprise alerted Hadvar to her presence, and from there he quickly finished her off. She loosed another arrow that found his original opponent's eye, and the fight was decidedly over.

'You saved my life.' He sounded astonished.

'Yeah,' she sighed. 'Let's hope I don't have to save it again.'

The two of them had only lingered long enough for Merrin to grab arrows from the quivers of corpses, and then they'd plunged ahead.

They'd wandered through a system of earthen tunnels, hitting a number of dead ends that made her gnash her teeth in frustration as icy water soaked her too-large boots and numbed her aching feet.

And then a second cave-in had very nearly claimed her life. If Hadvar hadn't seen the ceiling going behind them and grabbed her arm to yank her forward, she would've been crushed for sure. They'd stumbled forward and hit the dirt, hands coming up to protect their heads as jagged chunks of rock piled up just behind them, and both sustained fresh scrapes to their faces when they met the rocky ground.

After the collapse had stilled, they just laid there for a moment, breathing hard, bleeding afresh. Merrin was the one to break the silence.

'I guess that makes us even, now.'

He gave a hooting laugh that surprised her. 'If things continue like this, we won't be able to keep score.'

Then he reached over and clapped her on the back, before he rolled stiffly to his feet and helped her to hers. 'Come on. I can't wait to get out of this gods forsaken cave.'

She agreed wholeheartedly, and they trekked on, doubly cautious.

Their caution was warranted; after a couple more useless dead ends, they stumbled into a den of Frostbite spiders that were none too pleased to see them there. Ensuring that you didn't take poison directly to the face was hard, when every muscle in your body was tight and aching.

'What _next_?' he grumbled as he wiped his blade clean on some ferns. 'Giant snakes?'

'Don't even say those two words together,' she groaned. She'd always hated snakes.

'Sorry, sorry.'

They followed the trail of a coursing underground river, the logic being that it had to let out somewhere, and shared a stamina potion while they walked. Merrin sighed gratefully as some of the tension eased from her muscles, and her tired body received a stirring of energy.

'Better?' he asked.

'Better.'

He nodded, stretching his neck to one side until it cracked before shaking his shoulders loose. 'We'd better conserve them, though. When we get out of here, we can—'

'Shh!'

Merrin had stopped dead in her tracks. She grabbed him by the arm and held a finger to her lips, her eyes speaking to his urgently.

'Bear,' she mouthed, and he grimaced.

She turned him around, and pointed. 'See her?' she breathed. 'Up there.'

There was indeed a bear; shaggy, black and huge, it lay fifty paces ahead of them, curled up among some ferns in an alcove of the rocky wall. As far as either could tell, it was sleeping.

'What do you want to do?' he whispered back.

She thought for a moment. She could try to take a shot with her bow, but she was far from feeling lucky and if it wasn't a kill shot, they were in for a messy fight. They were both tired, and an enraged bear was not something she wanted to tangle with just then...

'Let's try to sneak around.'

He nodded, and let her take the lead.

She'd done her fair share of sneaking around in her work, and she was comfortably light on her feet. This was clearly the bear's den, and she was careful to give it a wide berth, pulling off her ill-fitting boots so that she could trust her tread. As she crept along, she pointed out every rock that might clatter or small bone that could snap underfoot, so he could carefully avoid them.

They were close to soundless, and the bear never stirred.

When she was sure that they were far enough away, she straightened up, and Hadvar followed suit.

After rounding another corner, they saw daylight streaming through an opening in the wall, and Merrin's heart jumped into her throat.

'This looks like the way out.' Hadvar's voice cracked with relief. 'I was starting to wonder if we'd ever make it.'

'It feels like we've been in here for ages,' she groaned.

'Well, no more.' They'd reached the hole. It was several feet up and only a few feet wide—probably not the bear's main entrance. But at this point, she'd have tried to shove herself through a pinhole.

Hadvar threw their rucksack out ahead of him, and hoisted himself up and out of the cave. Then a moment later he reached a hand down for her.

She grabbed that hand, and let it pull her into the sun.

* * *

Despite it being well into the afternoon, the sun dazzled her eyes after so long in the cave. She went to take her first step, but before she could, he'd thrown his arm in front of her chest.

'Wait!'

She saw the shadow, and heard the flapping of wings. The dragon crested over their heads, and her heart stopped dead in her chest. Had it seen them? It either hadn't noticed them or didn't care enough to kill them, because it let out one last shrieking roar and then took off, soaring high into the sky until it disappeared from view.

He relaxed his arm, and looked over at her. 'Looks like he's gone for good this time.'

She nodded. And then the relief proved too much on top of everything else, and she leaned quickly away from him to be badly sick.

He held onto one of her arms until the wracking heaves settled, and smiled sympathetically when she looked around at him, her gaze both wretched and guarded.

'Hey, I'm not judging.' He held up his other hand. 'I've been there before.'

'I need...come on.'

Without looking back to make sure he was following, she staggered on legs made of jelly to where she could hear a nearby stream. She fell to her knees in front of the water, and made a cup with her hands to bring some to her mouth, swishing away the vile taste before it could make her sick again.

Then she leaned forward and dunked her entire face in the icy water, using her hands to scrub away the layers of blood, soot and grime. When her face felt clean, she moved on to her arms, scrubbing them with cold water until her real skin emerged.

Her hair was loose around her and a sopping mess from the stream. She wrung it out as best she could before she gathered it behind her and brought her face back to the water, drinking deeply until she was satisfied.

Hadvar _had_ followed her, and waited patiently; when she turned around, he nodded understanding, and then knelt to take a drink himself.

It was as he was pulling himself to his feet beside her that she suddenly realized her bladder was bursting.

'If I don't find a tree, I'm going to have an accident.'

'Aye. I second you on that, too.'

They walked separately into the woods, and as soon as she was free from her armor, she relieved herself. Hadvar was already finished and waiting for her when she made her way back to the stream.

'So.' He looked her up and down, and although he looked haggard and tired, there was warmth in his gaze. 'If I recall rightly, your name is Merrin.'

She nodded, and he held out a hand to shake. 'I think it's time that we make a proper acquaintance—having saved each other's lives, and all. I'm Hadvar.'

It all seemed surreal, and she nearly laughed as she took his hand and shook it. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance, Hadvar.' Then she grew sheepish, remembering how they'd _actually_ met. 'I'm sorry I spit on you.'

A tired grin broke over his face, and he shook his head at her. 'Don't worry about it. I'd have spit on me too, if I were you.' Something about the smile made her stomach jump, and she turned away from him, feeling flustered.

He picked up the rucksack with their things inside, and slid it firmly onto his back. When he looked at her again, his gaze was serious.

'The dragon may be gone, but we shouldn't stick around and wait for him to come back.'

'So, you mean for us to travel together?' More stomach jumping. 'Where do you suggest we go?'

'I wouldn't leave you out here alone in the woods, after something like what just happened.' The mere thought seemed to offend him, and he shook his head before he continued.

'The closest town from here is Riverwood, and my uncle's the blacksmith there. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to help us, and the journey isn't far.'

They set off walking through the woods. Merrin had been to Riverwood more than once in her youth, and it relieved her to be going somewhere she was already somewhat familiar with.

But it wasn't long before the adrenaline started to really fade from their systems, and the reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

'A dragon,' Hadvar said weakly, seeming dazed. 'By the gods. The first in a thousand years...'

'I know how you feel,' she replied honestly. 'I saw it with my own eyes, and still hardly believe it.'

'And all those _people_ ,' he lamented darkly. 'We weren't prepared for anything like this. We don't even know if anyone else escaped Helgen alive. For all we know, we could be the only ones.'

She shook her head fiercely. 'You can't think that way. We made it out—I'm sure lots of others did, too.'

'I should've done more to help people escape. I shouldn't have run. I should've—'

'Hey.' She stopped in her tracks, and pulled on his arm to stop him, too. She looked him directly in the eye, and saw raw sorrow there.

'You did the best that you could. That's all anyone can hope for. And you did _plenty_ to help people escape.' She squeezed his arm in a comforting gesture. 'I saw the way you saved that boy. He wouldn't have stood a chance if you hadn't intervened. And you saved me, too. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead under a pile of rubble right now. Might not have even made it to the rubble.'

He was silent for several moments at her words, and his dark eyes were brooding as he looked at her. He thanked her, seemingly deep in thought, and then suggested that they continue on.

The silence stretched, and as they walked it became less heavy, and more companionable. They met no one and nothing on their forested path, and if she could've ignored what they'd just been through, she would've found peace and beauty in their surroundings. Their path intercepted one of the Emperor's roads, and they trekked over the cobbles without remark.

They'd been walking for a good stretch when he stopped her, and pointed to something in the distance for her to see.

'You see that ruin up there? Bleakfalls Barrow.'

She stared at where he pointed, and saw the ruins nestled amongst the trees, high on the side of a mountain. Stormy grey and crumbling, they jutted high into the sky in magnificent arches, foreboding and forgotten. Merrin had seen her fair share of Barrows, and over the last four years, she'd entered what she considered _more_ than her fair share on jobs. She was no stranger to what lurked within, and she repressed a shiver as her mind conjured pictures of glowing blue eyes.

As if reading her thoughts, Hadvar continued. 'When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night...that sort of thing.' He shuddered, and then laughed at himself as he looked down at her. 'I admit, I still don't like the look of it.'

'Any man who claims not to be bothered by the draugr is lying through his teeth.' They started walking again, and she tilted her head as she looked at him. 'You say you lived in Riverwood as a boy. Did your uncle raise you, then?'

He nodded. 'Yes. My ma and da died when I was ten, and I went to live with him and my aunt in the village after that. They're the ones who raised me.' When he spoke of his family, respect shone in his voice, and it tugged at her heartstrings a bit.

'And what of them, do they have any other children?'

He grinned. 'Oh, yes. Twelve years back, my aunt fell unexpectedly into the family way. It'd been just the three of us until then, and I'd already left home and joined the Legion. Now I have a little cousin running around. A girl named Dorthe.' He shook his head. 'She's too sassy for her own good, a proper little monster. You'll be meeting her soon enough, I'd wager.'

She was about to reply when he pointed ahead again, and when he spoke he sounded excited.

'Oh! This'll be an opportunity for you, I think. Look ahead, down the hill—have you ever been to the Guardian Stones?'

'I haven't.' And it was the truth; despite Skyrim being her home, she'd only ever seen a couple of the legendary Stones, and never the three in front of them now. Even though they were making their way towards cover, and despite all they'd been through, Merrin was sorely tempted to inspect them; she'd inherited a love of the mysterious sculptures from her father.

'Do you think we really have time for this?' she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

'I think we can risk it.'

When they stepped onto the raised platform surrounding the stones, she saw that each had a magnificent carving; a cloaked rogue with a dagger, a mage with billowing robes and staff, and a brawny warrior in a pointed helm.

'You know the legends surrounding the Stones,' Hadvar said. 'Each one imbues you with a blessing, and strengthens your skills in a particular area. Our ancestors have been converging at the stones for centuries. These are referred to as the Guardians, because they all aid your offensive skills.'

'Doesn't each Stone have a name?'

'Of course.' He pointed to the farthest stone, and then at the others as he spoke their names. 'That's the Warrior. In the middle is the Mage. This one here is the Thief.' He eyed her carefully as he stepped aside. 'All three have the potential to help you. Which is most useful to you?'

She didn't have to think about it. She stepped up to the Warrior Stone, and placed her hand on the carved orb in the centre. She'd received a Stone's blessing once before, but it still shocked her as she felt the undeniable surge of energy jolting through her body, warming her, lifting her spirits.

When she steadied herself, Hadvar was smiling at her.

'Warrior, eh? I knew you shouldn't have been on that cart the moment I laid eyes on you.'

Her stomach clutched, and she stared with wide eyes. 'You believe I'm innocent?' Her feelings towards him warmed even further when he nodded.

'I do. You were never supposed to be on that cart with those Stormcloaks. It was all a big mistake, as far as I'm concerned. Come on, we should go.' He beckoned with one hand, and turned to leave.

 _Wait, what?_

'Hang on just a minute.' She started walking with him again, but some of her earlier anger was coming out of hibernation. 'If you acknowledge that I shouldn't have been taken into custody, then why was I nearly executed?'

'You shouldn't have been. It was sloppy on the Legion's part,' he replied apologetically. 'If I had to wager a guess, I'd say that it was because of who you were _with_ when you got caught.'

She was trying not to fume. 'Explain.'

He sighed. 'We'd captured Ulfric Stormcloak, after years of him running circles around us. Since the start of the war he's slipped through our fingers, but after that ambush, we finally had him. It was an incredible victory for us, and Ulfric was meant to stand trial in Cyrodiil. But it sounded like some of our men were getting anxious along the way. They feared that Ulfric's rebels would know he'd been taken, and would set up a counter-ambush during the journey. We were still days from the capital, and I guess Tullius changed his mind—decided a hasty execution would be better in the end. And...you know the rest,' he finished meekly.

She was silent for several seconds, battling her anger.

'The burden of chaining a powerful man shouldn't result in the execution of innocents,' she said at last. 'There's no honor in that. And no justice.'

'I completely agree with you,' Hadvar lamented. 'I've followed under General Tullius for as long as he's been in Skyrim, and he's proven himself to be a fair man of character. His actions in Helgen were unworthy of him.'

He appeared to be entirely sincere, and after several more moments, she softened.

'Has Tullius been in the province long?'

He seemed to recognize the olive branch in her words, and looked at her gratefully before he answered.

'Only a few months. But he's turned things around for the Empire in this war. He has a brilliant mind for strategy—in fact, he was the one behind us finally capturing Ulfric. He's brought an outsider's perspective to the war table, and as a leader he's solid and fair. A great many soldiers are devoted to him.'

'And what about you? Are you devoted to Tullius?'

'I'm devoted to his cause,' he replied soberly. 'Most of all, I'm devoted to our land—to Skyrim. And a peaceful life for all of her inhabitants.'

She liked that answer, and walked in silence for several moments as she thought over all that he'd said.

'If he's as brilliant as you say he is, then he'll be busy in the days to come.'

'That's true. Especially if that dragon is under Stormcloak control.'

'What?' That thought startled her, and made her uneasy. 'You really think that's a possibility?'

He shook his head. 'We'd be foolish to discount it. If Stormcloaks discovered a sleeping dragon, and found some way to wake it up and control it...don't you think it a bit too unlikely to be a coincidence? The first dragon in a thousand years burns down the small village holding the leader of the rebellion, _just_ as he's about to be executed?'

'I...I don't know.' She had to admit, the timing _had_ been integral, for her especially. If it hadn't been for that dragon, she'd be dead.

'It's a mystery, to be certain,' he continued. 'But one thing, I know for sure. If the rebels _have_ got themselves a dragon, Tullius is the only one who can stop them.'

After another second he looked back to the road ahead.

'Ah, we're almost to Riverwood now.'

She looked ahead and saw for herself that he was right. Beyond a stone and wooden archway lay the first houses of a quaint and sleepy village. She could see a few people wandering down the main road, and smoke rising from several chimneys. As she continued toward them, Hadvar spoke up again, sounding cautious.

'Listen...as far as _I'm_ concerned, you've already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed for you, it's best if you avoid other Imperial soldiers. Things look quiet enough for now, though. You should be safe.'

He looked genuinely concerned for her well-being, and it warmed her.

'Thank you for believing that I'm innocent. It means a lot to me.'

He looked guilty then, and they both knew why; if the dragon hadn't attacked Helgen, Hadvar's beliefs wouldn't have changed a thing. 'Of course. Now, come on. Let's get to my uncle's.'

They passed through the gateway as the sun was starting to set. Cobblestone houses with thatched roofs and rough-hewn log cabins lined the street, and wildflowers spilled from tiny gardens by their doors. The river burbled and flowed nearby to their right, and amongst the lowing of cattle, birds were starting their evening call.

Riverwood was an ideallyic place.

The first _person_ they heard, though, didn't sound happy at all.

' _Sven_ ,' an old lady screeched from the shade of her porch. 'Sven! Confound it, you dung-heap, quit ignorin' me and get over here, now!'

'What is it _now,_ mother?' Her screams were directed at a blond man in a bright yellow tunic with sky blue trim, walking slowly down the road, and his tone indicated long suffering and short patience.

'A dragon! I saw a dragon!' The old woman howled, and both Hadvar and Merrin jolted at hearing her words. They looked at one another, and quickened their pace.

'A dragon? Mother, please.' Her son scoffed. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

'I'm _not_ being ridiculous! What's ridiculous is how long it took you to get back from Whiterun! I've been waiting to tell you since it happened!'

'Mother...'

'It was big as a house, and black as night!—' The man had reached the porch and was hurrying his mother inside, closing the door behind them, and the two of them sighed with relief, heads bowed low.

'There's my uncle. Follow me.'

* * *

When Hadvar's uncle took in their appearance, all of the color drained from his ruddy face. Apparently the river water hadn't helped as much as she'd thought.

'Shor's bones, boy,' he gasped. 'What _happened_ to you? Are you in some kind of trouble?'

Hadvar lifted his hands up, trying to calm him. 'Shh—Uncle Alvor, please, keep your voice down. I'm fine, but we should go inside to talk.'

'What's going on?' His wide eyes traveled over to her again, and settled this time. 'And who is this?'

'She's a friend,' Hadvar sighed. 'Saved my life, as a matter of fact. But we really should get inside the house. I'll tell you everything there.'

'Fine, fine,' Alvor said, looking worried. He wiped his sooty hands off on a ragged apron around his waist and then walked to the front door, grabbing the handle. 'Come on in, both of you. Sigrid can get you something to drink.'

Hadvar's family turned out to be very kind and welcoming people. Alvor had called out to his wife when they'd entered, and as soon as the red-haired woman had laid eyes on Hadvar, she'd rushed into his arms.

They were ushered to the kitchen table, and seated closest to the fire. Sigrid rushed to fill two large tankards with mead, and handed one to each of them; Merrin sipped politely at hers, her nerves too frazzled for anything else, but Hadvar ended up draining his between the telling of the tale.

At, first, when Hadvar brought up the dragon, Alvor hadn't believed him.

'A dragon...bah! You aren't drunk, are you boy?'

But Sigrid would have none of it. 'Husband,' she'd admonished. 'Mind your mead and let the poor boy tell his story. You _asked_ to hear it, remember?'

He hadn't gotten very far in the telling when a little brown-haired girl with gangly limbs came suddenly rushing up the stairs. 'Hadvar, Hadvar, is it true? Did you really see a dragon?' she asked, talking so fast she was barely understandable. Her eyes glittered with excitement as she threw her arms around his neck. 'Was it huge? Did it breathe fire? Oh, tell me, tell me!'

Hadvar chuckled weakly at her misplaced enthusiasm, and Sigrid cut in quickly before he could say anything. 'Hush now, child, don't pester your cousin. He's been through quite enough already. Why don't you go and play outside with Frodnar? And for pity's sake, don't mention any dragons!'

It took her a minute to convince the girl to go outside and play, but Merrin more than understood Sigrid's feelings. This was no story for a child to hear. When she was finally gone, Sigrid gave them an apologetic smile.

'That was Dorthe,' she said to Merrin. 'A real handful, our little girl.'

She'd already heard about Dorthe on the road, and smiled. 'No more a handful than I was for _my_ poor da, I'm sure.'

Then they turned their attention back to Hadvar, and she let him take the lead, only speaking up when necessary.

When he'd finished the story, both Alvor and Sigrid were looking somber and fearful. Hadvar looked at them with eyes full of sorrow.

'I know times are hard and I hate to ask, but I was wondering if we could lay up here for a while and recover some before I have to head to Solitude and report back to General Tullius...' he shook his head. 'Gods, if he's even still alive, that is.'

Alvor hurriedly insisted that of course, they were staying with him, and at that point he turned to Merrin. She found a key to the house being pushed into her hand, and then he offered her some supplies. The offer touched her—times really _were_ hard—but she accepted hardly anything the kindly smith tried to give her. She'd only escaped Helgen with a few things of value, and she knew very well that she was in dire straits. But she was too proud to really lean on his offer.

Sigrid left the table while Alvor talked to prepare a hot bath in their sitting tub down in the basement, and Hadvar insisted that she be the first to bathe. She stripped gratefully out of her dirty armor and sweaty underclothes and sank into hot, fragrant water that smelled of pine soap and juniper.

The water cleaned her skin while it soothed her battered muscles, and she was able to properly wash her hair, picking the last of the detritus out.

When she was nearly finished in the bath, Sigrid came down and handed her a plain blue dress; she tried to refuse the gesture as too kind, but the woman waved her off. When she emerged upstairs she was wearing the dress, her damp dark hair in a loose braid at her back.

While Hadvar went downstairs and took _his_ bath, Sigrid served up hot bowls of venison stew, and lit candles for them to eat by in the house. Night was falling in earnest outside, and as they ate, Alvor questioned her some more. He wanted to know all sorts of things, including his daughter's earlier question ('How big was it, really?'), and Merrin did her best to answer them. When he'd run out of questions, he looked at her seriously.

'Like I said earlier, any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine, and you're welcome to stay as long as you like. But I need your help in return. We _all_ do.' He looked worriedly at his wife. 'The Jarl needs to know that there's a dragon on the loose out there. Riverwood is defenseless...we don't even have a proper wall, and no guards are stationed in the village. Word needs to get to Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can spare, right away. If you would deliver that message, I'd be in your debt.' Sigrid nodded, and he squeezed her knee as they waited for Merrin's response.

At first, she hesitated; she'd never actually been to Whiterun, despite her mercenary work. And she didn't feel like venturing out on foot through country she'd never been through to deliver a message, so soon after nearly being killed... _especially_ with next to no gear. But she didn't want to see the village harmed, and he was right—they were defenseless.

After only a moment, she told him she'd go, and ask Whiterun's Jarl for assistance. It was the right thing to do, and she was rewarded by their looks of relief.

Hadvar came upstairs a minute later, looking wholly made over in a clean linen tunic and breeches, and sat at the table with them to dig into his own bowl of stew. As he ate and the others lingered at the table, Alvor told her about the amenities in the village and where she would find them, mentioning the inn, the mill, and the general store. She'd been to Riverwood before, but it had been years ago, and she listened intently to his words.

Dorthe came banging through the door shortly after, trailing fireflies and making them all jump; Frodnar's family had kept her for dinner, and after that she and Frodnar had taken someone—something?—named Stump and played in the nearby woods. Sigrid looked more than alarmed at that part, but she must've been trying hard to maintain a sense of normalcy for her daughter, because she smoothed her expression over before she took Dorthe by the hand and told her it was time to get ready for bed.

The little girl whined and complained, but Merrin was on Sigrid's side; she'd just had one of the most grueling days of her life, and it was catching up with her. Combined with the hot food, warm bath, and tankard full of mead...to say she was tired would've been an understatement.

Sigrid must have seen that she was exhausted, because she announced firmly that it was time for their guest to rest.

'Thank you, Sigrid. You're too kind. Just hang on.' She reached a hand out towards Hadvar's face. 'I can heal those scrapes, if you want.'

Hadvar seemed surprised that she'd bother, but agreed, and she pulled from her reserves of magicka to make the cuts smattering his face disappear. His family didn't seem off put by magic, and for a house full of Nords, that was a pleasant surprise. As soon as she was done, she bid him goodnight, and turned back to Sigrid.

'Where should I sleep?'

The family elected to spend the night on spare bed rolls by the hearth, giving Dorthe's bed to Merrin for the night (Dorthe making a brave attempt at seeming not at all bothered by this development), and their own bed to Hadvar. While Alvor pulled bedrolls from a chest in the corner, Sigrid led Merrin downstairs to where Dorthe slept.

As soon as the other woman left, Merrin let her hair down and crawled between the woolen blankets. She really was exhausted, and could tell that she wasn't long for the waking world. Above her, Dorthe and Sigrid both climbed into their bedrolls, and soon fell quiet. But the men stayed sitting at the scarred wooden table, talking in low, sometimes urgent voices.

She could still hear them discussing the implications of Stormcloak-controlled dragons when she finally fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter contains explicit sexual content unsuitable for readers under the age of 16.**

She slept deeply, and for much longer than usual. When she finally started awake and went upstairs, she found full sunlight streaming through the thick, wavy glass in the windows, and the house empty—aside from one other person.

Hadvar was face down on the big bed across the room, snoring softly. She found a note scrawled in a feminine, loopy hand on the table, with her name misspelled at the top. It explained that Alvor was outside working the forge for the day, but if she needed help with anything, she could ask him. Sigrid and Dorthe had both gone down the road to help a lady named Hilde with her weaving, as they always did on a Tirdas, but they'd be back by early afternoon. If she was hungry, it said, she'd find breakfast in the pot by the hearth.

She _was_ hungry, but instead of helping herself to breakfast, she found herself watching Hadvar.

She stood several feet away from the large bed that he lay sprawled in, watching his broad, scarred, naked back rise and fall with his breathing. He must have stayed up late into the night with Alvor, talking, and she saw another large tankard that had probably been holding mead last night sitting empty on the bedside table.

Merrin could see half of his face from where she was standing, and noted with interest that it wasn't at all a bad face. For several seconds she stood still there as warmth bloomed in her abdomen, staring at the man who'd helped her escape Helgen, considering her options. And then she walked resolutely across the room and sat down next to him on the bed.

He woke up when she put a hand on his arm, eyeing her blearily, and asked her if she was okay.

'I'm better than okay.' She smiled. 'I slept like a cave bear in hibernation.'

He pulled himself up onto one elbow and used the palm of his free hand to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes, and she watched him as he did. He had kind hazel eyes, and she noted full lips when a huge yawn overtook him. Her blood ran a little hotter.

'What about you, Hadvar? How did you sleep?'

He chuckled. 'Pretty decently, when I finally fell into bed. It's nice to be back in a friendly spot, no?'

'Definitely,' she agreed. 'It was so good of your aunt and uncle to let us stay here like this.'

'They're good people.' The pride and respect were both back in his voice, and she nodded her head in agreement.

'That's part of why I agreed to help them last night. Your uncle asked me to go to Whiterun, to tell Jarl Balgruuf about what happened at Helgen, and ask him to post some soldiers in Riverwood so it isn't just sitting defenseless. I'm going to do it today.'

'Oh.' He seemed pleasantly surprised at this news. 'That was good of you to agree to. Have you been to Whiterun before?'

'No, never.'

'Do you want me to come with you? It would be no trouble.'

His words caused another clutch in her lower abdomen, and she smiled. She was confident that she was making the right call.

'I appreciate the offer, Hadvar. But I know how to handle myself.'

He nodded emphatically. 'After what I saw yesterday, I can only agree.'

 _Time to make my move._

Merrin looked at him seriously now, tucking her tumbling hair behind her ears.

'Hadvar? I want to..thank you, for all you've done for me since we met. And for believing that I'm innocent.'

He looked at her, amused. 'You've already thanked me for all of that.'

She shook her head. 'That wasn't the thanks I have in mind.'

And then, with her eyes firmly on his, she leaned down and kissed him right on the mouth.

He seemed shocked at first, but far from unwilling; after a moment she broke the kiss, and sat cross-legged on the bed as she unlaced the sides of Sigrid's blue dress, and his eyes riveted themselves to her naked body as soon as she pulled it off. 'Gods,' he breathed shakily, suddenly fully awake, and she smiled demurely as she threw the quilt over the edge of the bed. He was still in his cotton breeches, and she took hold of them then with both hands.

She worked to pull them over his hips; he was already hard, and his straining erection gave her some trouble before he came springing free with an excited groan, and she eyed him appreciatively. She urged him to sit up straighter against the headboard, and then cupped him boldly with one hand as she dragged his breeches the rest of the way off with the other, leaving him naked in the bed.

Then she kissed a trail up his hard abdominal wall and over his hairy chest, straddling him before she stopped to nip at his collarbone.

'M..Merrin...' There was a flush spreading high over his strong cheekbones, and the tone of his voice made her clench with excitement.

'Do you want me, Hadvar?'

He eyed her as if in a powerful daze. 'Yes.'

'Then touch me.'

He obeyed her immediately; Hadvar had clearly known other women, and he grabbed her hips expertly, bringing himself right up to her entrance. Then he moaned in pleasure as he took both of her breasts into his large calloused hands, weighing them and squeezing them before he rolled both nipples between his fingertips, and stared at her to gauge her reaction. She gasped, and it obviously pleased him, because he applied himself with even more enthusiasm.

When he bent forward to take her left breast deep into his mouth, she cried out and fisted both hands in his chestnut hair, holding him there and arching her back as hot need rippled through her. He reached around and let his hands roam her back, igniting her senses even further, and after a while she pulled him away.

'It's time,' she groaned.

'It is,' he agreed, voice strained and heavy with desire.

She lowered herself down onto him then, sheathing him in her warmth, and the bliss hit both of them like a solid wall. It had been a while, too long, since Merrin had had anyone, and she rode him fast and hard and without compunction, reveling in the slap of their flesh coming together and his grunts of ecstasy.

For several minutes her pleasure built steadily upwards, her stomach muscles pulling tight across as the sensations mounted, and her own groans levelled with his. She braced her palms on the damp, bunched muscles of his chest, and as she rode him his hands feverishly gripped and wandered her body, making her shiver at the way his callouses scraped her skin. He murmured compliments that she only half absorbed, and she gritted her teeth when he clamped both hands like vices over her ass and used them to encourage her thrust.

She was close then, could feel her climax gathering like a hot wave around her, and every time she rapidly came down on him, he was exactly where she needed him to be.

After another moment she let her head fall back, and with a strangled, animalistic cry, she came. The hot, spastic clenching of her muscular walls dragged him over the edge with her, and his rough hands slid up to her waist, squeezing her there instead in the fervor of his climax, and he moaned long and hard as he emptied into her. No words were said. No words were needed.

Gradually, they stilled. A warm, flowing, easy feeling stretched through Merrin like fine silk, and she let out a long sigh as she slumped forward onto his sweaty chest. One of his hands came up to rest on her back, and for a short while they lay there in companionable silence. She was the first to move, and when she lifted her head to look at him, they exchanged a heavy lidded stare that cracked lazy smiles over both their faces. She leaned forward a bit to kiss him again, his lips soft and yielding now, and tasted a hint of his tongue. The two eyed each other appreciatively for another moment, and then with no further ceremony she disentangled herself, shivering as she felt him come sliding out of her.

He stayed where she left him, half laying and slumped against the headboard, appropriately wrecked over the encounter, and her smile transformed into a grin as she stepped away from the bed.

'There,' she said, eyes dancing. 'Now we've said our proper thanks, yeah?'

'Best thank-you I can remember receiving.' He sounded a bit breathless, and together with the words he'd said, it pulled a happy laugh from somewhere deep in her gut.

'I'm happy to hear it.'

She leaned over casually in the nude, not bothering to cover herself as she picked up Sigrid's dress where she'd dropped it. She folded it neatly before she left it on top of the chest by the bed, and then she looked at him again. He'd brought both arms up and laced his fingers to rest under his head, and looked the picture of satisfaction.

'Hadvar,' she said. 'I think you'd better...', and smiled mischievously as she gestured that he should put his pants back on.

He blushed then, and seemed suddenly sheepish as he nodded—probably realizing all at once that he'd just had spontaneous sex with a virtual stranger, in his aunt and uncle's borrowed bed.

She hurried downstairs and quickly cleaned herself up, slipping into the tattered clothes she'd escaped Helgen in, and pulling the scavenged armor on over top. Twice, she fumbled the straps and had to redo the buckles, and eventually she laughed at herself, still feeling giddy. It really _had_ been too long since she'd had a man, and Hadvar had exceeded her expectations.

When she reemerged upstairs, the sword she'd claimed was hanging from its sheath at her waist. Her bow was sitting unstrung on her back, beside the rough hide quiver. And the rucksack they'd taken, meager as it was, was packed and slung over her shoulder.

She looked Hadvar over again, and saw that he'd hastily pulled his breeches back on and made his aunt and uncle's bed while she'd been downstairs. He wore last night's linen tunic with the strings left untied, exposing a lot of his chest underneath, and his eyes had a dreamy quality to them as he regarded her.

He gestured to a bowl in front of him at the table and offered her some breakfast, but she only smiled and refused. The time had come for them to go their separate ways, and he rose to see her to the door.

'I don't suppose you'd consider heading to Solitude after this, and joining the Legion? We're always looking for capable men and women.'

He sounded sheepish even as he said it, and at the look on her face, he broke out into a crooked smile.

'I figured as much. It was worth asking, though.'

'Sure it was.'

It would have been silly for them to merely nod or shake hands again after she had so decisively changed the nature of their acquaintance, so they shared a long embrace. She was suddenly tempted to kiss him again, but she held herself back; when she pulled herself away, he was looking a bit forlorn.

'Will we be seeing each other again,' he asked, 'or is this a real goodbye?'

'I don't know, Hadvar,' she replied honestly, and she grabbed the latch of the door with one hand as the other gripped the strap of her pack. 'If the Gods mean for us to cross paths again, then there's no doubting we will.'

He grimaced. 'I'm more inclined to believe in a man deciding his fate for himself.'

She felt exactly the same way, but didn't say as much, and with a wistful sort of smile she turned to go.

'At any rate,' he continued, his voice softer than before, 'I'm thankful to the Gods for having met you at all.'

 _That_ was when she whirled back around, grabbing two fistfuls of his tunic to yank him towards her, and gave in to the urge to kiss him again.

* * *

Several minutes later, feeling lightheaded and punch-drunk, she finally emerged from Alvor's house, and she had to pull herself together quickly as she walked up to the smith himself.

She let him know that she was leaving for Whiterun, to do for him as he'd asked, and thanked him again wholeheartedly for all of his hospitality. He responded by giving her a crinkly eyed smile, and telling her that he looked forward to seeing her in Riverwood again someday. This man's hand she _did_ shake, and with that, she stepped off the porch and headed down the road.

She didn't leave the village immediately, but turned instead into the general store, a two-storeyed log cabin called the Riverwood Trader; for all of her polite but insistent refusal to take Alvor's supplies, she really was in one of the worst financial positions she'd ever been in.

Merrin had never been so presumptuous as to consider herself wildly successful at her career as a hired sword; she'd owned no property since she'd sold her father's land, and had hardly been swimming in gold. She made enough money to look after all of her needs, and typically some of her wants, too. But there were times that were noticeably leaner than others.

But _never_ before in the four years of her travels had she found herself robbed of every last thing she'd been carrying, forced to scavenge armor to cover herself and shoddy weapons to fight with, without a single septim to her name.

She needed a few provisions, and needed them badly.

When she entered the Trader, she walked in on a heated argument between two Imperials inside that was quickly stifled by her presence. It must've been awkward for the man, who introduced himself as 'Lucan Valerius, owner of the Trader', because she'd stared at him a mere two seconds before he ducked his head and cleared his throat. 'You must be wondering what that fight was about,' he said sheepishly, avoiding her gaze.

'I wouldn't want to intrude,' she replied, and with a huge sigh the other woman in the room picked up her skirts and went flouncing up the stairs.

The man named Lucan explained, still sheepishly, that the woman he'd been arguing with was his younger sister Camilla; she was dissatisfied with his continuing inaction. A fortnight ago, they'd had a break-in at the shop, and while only one thing was taken, it was something of great value—a golden claw relic, the kind of claw said to be used to open the Halls of Stories in ancient Nordic barrows.

'She wants me to get the claw back, but what does she expect me to do? I'm a merchant for godssake, not a warrior.'

Before she could answer him, he cocked his head to one side, eyeing her afresh.

'Actually, now that I'm thinking about it... _you_ seem the adventuring type!'

Merrin opened her mouth to head him off. But then he spoke the magic words.

'Would you be willing to try and get the claw back for us? I have a shipment coming in any day now, and I'd pay you good money as a reward.'

In the end, it seemed that they were both desperate—him for his treasure back, and her for money to live on. She had no other plans beyond seeing the Jarl in Dragonsreach and doing what Alvor had asked, and after a minute's consideration, she agreed.

Then they got down to business.

She had precious few things to sell him, but with the money he gave her for the stamina potions she'd either scavenged or been given by Alvor, and the spellbook she'd taken off of the dead mage in the torture chamber, she was able to buy herself what she'd need to go to Whiterun; a proper tunic and leggings, a cord of twenty more iron arrows to go with the ones in her quiver, a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a potion of magicka in case she needed to heal herself.

He very considerately allowed her to use the privacy of the upper floor for a few minutes so she could change into her sturdy new clothes and then slip back into her armor. And then, without further ado, she was actually leaving the village.

Both Alvor _and_ Sigrid had given her directions to Whiterun, promising her that she wouldn't be able to miss the city jutting high into the sky from the surrounding plains. And it was beautiful country that she found herself walking through; the road was gently and continually downhill, and the river was her companion as it rushed along beside her. As she ate some of the bread she'd just bought, she wound her way through an emerald green forest suffused with sunlight and white-tailed deer. The air here was clean and fresh, and she breathed in deeply as she thought about how different the air had been that she'd breathed the day before.

For a while, it was a peaceful journey, full of the chirping of insects and the songs of birds. But she was in Skyrim—before too long, danger presented itself. Several wolves attacked her at a secluded bend in the forest road. She only had to kill one of them before the other two went scattering back into the woods, but the steel sword Hadvar had found for her really needed sharpening; wary after that, she drew her bow instead.

She thought of Hadvar some as she walked alone, her thoughts rosy and satisfied.

He'd ended up being a virtuous and compassionate man, someone she now considered a friend, and she was glad that she'd taken him to bed. She liked him all the better for the fact that he hadn't been put off by her blatant advances, once she'd decided she wanted him. She'd always been an assertive woman, usually sure of herself, and she'd met—and laid with—men in the past who were threatened by it.

But not Hadvar. When they'd finally broken apart again, his eyes had been glowing with emotion and desire, and when she'd stumbled against the door and finally opened it, he'd made as if to reach for her again, before he stopped himself and let her go. They'd said another goodbye, and that time, both of them had definitely been feeling wistful.

She meant what she'd said in the doorway of Alvor's house; if she ever met him again, she'd be glad for it.

In the second hour of her journey she saw another group of wolves. These were skulking in some shade by the road some fifty paces ahead of her, and she cautiously crept into some cover as soon as she spotted them. They hadn't noticed her, and she was able to take one of them down instantly with a well-aimed shot. Reliably, the rest of them scattered.

Soon after that, the scenery changed. The forest thinned dramatically, and the downhill sweep of the terrain got steeper. The river started rushing faster too, churning over some rocky rapids, and she could see salmon leaping in the frothing crests, sunlight sparkling off of their multi-colored scales.

She made it to the bottom of the hill she'd been descending, and the forest dropped away entirely as her view opened up; the ground had levelled out, and spreading out in front of her was the valley of craggy plains she'd been promised, and a walled city in the distance climbing like a vine up the one _true_ peak in the earthen dome.

Merrin had always been the kind to notice beauty wherever she went, and the vista before her took her breath away. She took a moment to simply appreciate it, before she continued down the road.

Despite having her destination in sight now, she decided to keep her bow strung and ready in her hand as she walked briskly over a stone bridge that spanned the roaring river. That choice ended up being very fortunate, because she'd just gotten close enough to start making out individual farms outside of the city walls when she noticed a commotion up ahead.

One of the farms was being attacked by a giant, and a small group of people danced around it, fighting to bring it down.

Merrin broke into a run towards them. Anybody who'd spent any amount of time in Skyrim knew how dangerous even a single giant could be, and when she'd encountered them in the field with clients, she'd always done her best to skirt around them. A few times, she hadn't been able to, and that was why she ran to join the fight in front of her now. She knew they'd need all the help they could get.

The sounds of the battle were growing every second, and as she approached, she surveyed the scene.

The giant was bellowing in frustration as he fought his three opponents—two women in light armors, and a man in steel who was much taller and broader. They were faster than the giant so far, but the giant was trying his best to crush them with an enormous club made of mammoth bone that had a jagged boulder fixed at the top. One hit from that, and it wouldn't matter how fast you'd been.

They'd done some damage, but nothing serious—one of the other women was an archer too, and she could see arrows sticking like quills from the giant's arms and torso. An enraged giant could take a lot of punishment.

He'd wandered into a field full of crops, and as he stomped his huge feet and flailed his club fruitlessly into the earth, she could see the pulverized remnants of cabbages go flying through the air with each raining shower of dirt.

She was close enough now. As the huge man with the greatsword yelled tauntingly at the giant, she nocked an arrow and drew it back, trusting her aim to be true as she loosed it.

She'd been aiming for the back of the giant's knee, and her arrow found its mark with a satisfying thud. It roared with pain and rage, and staggered about-face to lurch towards her, free hand groping at the arrow and snapping it. They'd noticed her entrance into the fray, and the male warrior used the opportunity to slash the giant's other knee with his great sword. With his tendons severed, the giant couldn't walk, and the ground beneath them trembled as he crashed to his knees. Bellowing madly, he swept out with his club, and all three fighters had to jump out of the way; the other woman there barely made it in time, accidentally dropping her sword as she fell to the ground.

Merrin lined up another shot while the path was clear, and took her chances, letting it fly. Her aim was true again; this arrow found the giant's left eye, and his head jerked back, his expression going instantly lax. Then he fell back with another, quieter crash, and lay unmoving in the torn up soil.

As a comparatively yawning silence settled over the farm, she jogged to cover the last of the distance separating them. One of the women walked up to meet her, and called out to her when she was still several feet away.

'You handle yourself well in a fight, stranger.'

They eyed one another. The woman in front of her was also tall, and also a Nord. She had fiery red hair and fierce green eyes, accentuated by a trio of dark, jagged slashes painted over her proud face.

'It looked like you folks could use some help.'

The woman shook her head, but when she spoke, she sounded pleased.

'We didn't _need_ your help to solve this. But it's certainly appreciated.' Her eyes narrowed assessingly, and then she spoke again. 'You have the potential to be a good Shield-Sister.'

Her curiosity was piqued. 'Shield-Sister? Which group do you belong to?'

The green-eyed woman threw her head back and laughed. 'I can't tell if you're new just to Whiterun, or to all of Skyrim, not knowing something like that.' She stood up straight and tall, and continued with obvious pride.

'We are Companions, following in the footsteps of our mighty founder, Ysgramor. We are brothers and sisters in honor, and fight for noble causes across the breadth of Skyrim.'

 _The Companions._ Of course, Merrin knew them; what true Nord wouldn't? Her father had raised her on stories about them and the things they'd done, and as a little girl stuck in a sleepy village, she'd dreamed more than once of running off to join them.

But it hadn't occurred to her when she made her way to Whiterun that she might _actually_ encounter some of the warriors.

The woman's earlier words hit her again, then, and she found herself full of shocked disbelief. She knew her way around a bow and blade, sure...but...

'And...you think I have the potential to join you?' The absurdity of a child-hood fantasy long set aside suddenly walking right up to her and knocking on her forehead had her welling up with skepticism. Just...what on Nirn were the odds?

The woman flashed her a grin. 'I've seen that you know how to fight. You're good with that bow—and I have a good eye in that department.' She jiggled her own bow where it rested over her shoulder to emphasize her point. 'So yes, I see potential in you. But really, it comes down to the person in question. If _you_ think you're skilled enough to join our ranks, then you should head up to Jorrvaskr in the Wind District, and speak to the Harbinger.'

'I've come to Whiterun on other errands...,' she hedged. In the last two days, she'd been arrested for conspiracy, had all her possessions stolen, had nearly been executed, and had then nearly been killed by a fire-breathing dragon. The idea that she'd be encouraged the very next day to join a world-famous company of warriors— _by one of said warriors—_ was just a _lot_ to take in, all things considered.

The woman laughed at her again. 'Well, just think it over, then. My name is Aela—I hope to see you there.'

With that, Aela and the dark-haired Imperial woman she'd come with took off towards the city at a run, hair streaming in the wind, never looking back.

But the hulking Nord with the great sword stayed behind.

He walked up to her from where he'd been examining the giant's corpse, and really looked at her for the first time. As he did, Merrin found herself pinned by a pair of the most impossibly blue eyes she'd ever seen—eyes the color of a clear winter sky, made even more striking by the sooty black warpaint that circled them.

Despite their striking quality, there was unmistakable warmth in them, and the man they belonged to gave her an easy grin as he leaned toward her conspiratorially.

'Aela doesn't mince words. And she doesn't make an offer like that to just anybody.' His voice was deep and easy, and it matched his friendly demeanor, if not his rugged and hulking mass. He had dark brown hair that came down to his shoulders, and as he spoke, the wind pushed it around his chiseled face.

'Er...I see.'

'And for what it's worth, I agree with her,' he continued. 'If you think you can take it, you should come to Jorrvaskr and be a Companion. The gold is good, and so's the company.' He paused to think, and then his grin widened as he amended his statement. 'Most of the time.'

And there it was again—the offer of coin that could keep her going. But there was doubt churning in Merrin's gut, and she had no qualms just then about giving that doubt a voice.

'I'm honored at the offer, I really am,' she said honestly. 'But I just _really_ wasn't expecting something like this. And...' She stared at the man, a perfect stranger, and shrugged as she lifted her palms to the sky in a helpless gesture. 'It seems more than a little unlikely, don't you think? Just walk right into Jorrvaskr, and become a Companion?'

He laughed at her then, a loud and joyful whooping sound that made her stomach do a sudden flip, and shook his head as he regarded her with mirth in his shining eyes.

'Oh, no, don't worry. It isn't so easy as just walking through the door. Not by a _long_ shot.'

She winced, cringing internally at how her words must have sounded to him, but he didn't seem fazed in the least. He put his hand on her shoulder then, an uncommonly friendly gesture in Skyrim for a stranger, and she noted absently that it was such a big hand that it covered most of her shoulder, armor and all.

'But honestly, don't be discouraged,' he continued, and now his voice had a conspiratorial tone to it, too. 'Anything can be intimidating, before you really know what it looks like.'

And with that he let her go, gave her a little wave, and took off running in the direction of the city, leaving her speechless and confused.

* * *

As she walked up the long and gradual hill to the city gates, Merrin told herself to forget about the Companions for now, and focus on the task at hand.

After the brawny blue-eyed man had left her alone, a meek looking Bosmer who tended the farm had emerged from the house there and walked up to her. She'd wanted to thank Merrin for her part in killing the giant, but didn't have much to offer her, and in the end she'd handed her two cabbages from the field that hadn't been destroyed. They sat in her rucksack now, making it bulge, and she thought wryly to herself that she'd need to find either a stew pot or a grocer in her very near future.

The guards at the gate didn't want to let her into the city when she approached, but when she told them that she had news about the dragon attack at Helgen, they yielded. They watched her pass with suspicious eyes, telling her they'd be watching her.

The second she passed through the heavy wooden gates, the city hit her like a wall of color, and her hungry eyes tried to take everything in at once.

The sun was still sitting high in a clear blue sky, and its light made everything look bright and cheerful here. A small, man-made river rushed through a tunnel beneath her feet, lending its soothing sounds to the air. A wide cobbled road made of different colored stones beckoned her further in, branching off in three directions and lined with green shrubbery. If she didn't head left past a watchtower and under a quaintly crumbling archway, or up a short hill to a handsome looking tavern, she'd walk directly past a two-storey house with a smithy and a smelter outside. The breeze was wafting towards her, and the smells coming from the forge made her ache with nostalgia.

She saw that the smith here was a woman, and felt immediate kinship with her. She was leaning against one of the pillars of her house, and talking to a beefy blonde man in Imperial armor. As Merrin passed them, she heard some of their conversation.

'I simply can't fill an order this size by myself. Why don't you ask Eorlund for help? He's more experienced, anyway.'

'I wouldn't ask him for spit, Adrienne. Besides, you know the old man'd never make steel for the Legion...'

It didn't surprise her that the conflicts of the civil war were present in the city; it was the same story no matter where you went in the province. She turned her attention to other things.

Her steps were getting lighter as she continued down the main road; she hadn't known what to expect of Whiterun, and the city was filling her with delight. Everywhere she looked housed a sort of quiet beauty, as lovely as it was old and shabby. The houses here all seemed to be made of the same weathered, honey-colored wood, with wrought-iron keepers nailed into every door, and intricate lead piping in every window glass. Small gardens spilled lush and fragrant everywhere, and lanterns hung from the pillars or porches to light your way come nightfall. Paint was peeling and wooden beams were cracked, but it all came together as fanciful.

When she came to an open-air market, she asked a passerby for directions to Dragonsreach, and had her suspicions confirmed; just keep heading up until she'd reached the top.

As she walked up the first set of steps and continued into the Wind District, she discovered that Whiterun was full of rivers; natural and man made, side by side. They circled a courtyard spanned with several footbridges. They came gushing straight from the rockface that held up the Clouds District, where she could already see Dragonsreach, sweeping and grand, water rushing through metal grates to collect in deep pools that hedged the long stairway to the Keep's front doors.

She climbed the long and twisting staircase, and felt the wind pick up to play in her loose, unruly hair. When she reached the top, she was greeted by a magnificent wooden bridge with a trellis, spanning across yet another pool of clear water. These guards too looked at her with suspicion, but she squared her shoulders and ignored them as she passed through the enormous wooden doors.

Dragonsreach had been impressive on the outside, and the inside didn't disappoint. A short set of stairs led up to a massive throne room, with sweeping cathedral ceilings and second-story balconies wrapping all the way around, and daylight streamed through elaborate stained glass windows sitting just below the ceiling. Ornate rugs adorned the rich wooden floors, and two long banquet tables set with fine silver and crystal stretched along either side of an enormous central fire pit. Torches adorned the walls in frequent sconces, and an elaborate wrought iron chandelier hung above her fitted with what must have been a hundred candles—currently unlit.

Beyond all of this sat the Jarl and his court, and far above him sat easily the most impressive trophy of them all—affixed to the wall sat a mounted dragon skull. It was huge, the bone polished to a clean, gleaming white. The horns that sprouted from the skullcap were dark and twisting, and still wickedly sharp, and the jaw hung open to display rows and rows of teeth, the biggest of which must've been five inches long. This was the dragon for which the Keep was named, and this was something that she could respect.

Wealth had never cowed her, even though she'd never known it, and she walked purposefully past the long banquet tables towards the man on the throne.

She was expecting to be apprehended by a housecarl of some sort, and she wasn't disappointed there, either; she was still several paces away from the Jarl when her path was blocked by a Dunmer in leather armor, sword already drawn.

'What is the meaning of this interruption?' the elf spat at her, glaring at Merrin with bright red eyes.

'I seek the audience of Whiterun's Jarl.'

'Jarl Balgruuf is holding court, and not receiving visitors.' The Dunmer's tone was openly hostile, and while she sheathed her sword, she didn't budge. 'You'll need to leave, and come again at some other time.'

'I can't leave without speaking to him,' Merrin persisted. 'I've come to deliver an important message.'

'Whatever it is,' the housecarl hissed, 'it isn't important enough to interrupt court proceedings. And regardless, you won't be delivering your message personally. Whatever you need to tell the Jarl, you can say to me.'

She was quickly remembering why she avoided Jarl's courts whenever possible—housecarls were impossible to deal with. Feeling her anger start to simmer, she resisted the urge to ball her hands into fists, and refused to back down from the Dunmer's challenging gaze.

'I am not leaving, court or no court. Not without relaying my message to the Jarl.'

The Dunmer was looking mutinous, and she took a step forward, getting right up in her face. 'What message could _possibly_ be so important, that you consider yourself above the court's law?'

'A message about a dragon,' Merrin said flatly. 'I come with news of the attack on Helgen.'

* * *

After saying those words, Merrin found herself standing in front of the Jarl of Whiterun in no time at all. His housecarl, who turned out to be named Irileth, stood right beside him, eyeing her angrily with open distrust.

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was a long, lanky man, with a large nose in a pointed face, and a mane of long blonde hair. Understandably, he wasn't happy to see her.

'So you say you were _at_ Helgen when it burned to the ground. And you're _quite_ sure it wasn't brigands of some sort who set the fires?'

'Unless brigands have wings, and fly around breathing fire.'

'You disrespect the Jarl, woman!' Irileth shouted and made to step toward her, but Balgruuf held a hand up to stop her, and stared at Merrin with lips skeptically pursed.

'You say it wasn't bandits, then fine, so be it. But a _dragon_? That's hard to believe. We haven't had a dragon in Skyrim for a thousand years, girl. Tell me, are you _absolutely sure_?'

'Yes, I'm sure,' Merrin said dryly. 'I had a pretty good view of the beast from where I was standing.' She hadn't forgotten Hadvar's advice, and she left out the part about her head being on a chopping block.

'Ysmir's beard.' Balgruuf slumped back in his throne, and brought a hand up to his brow in frustration.

'I don't want to believe it. You bring me terrible news, kinsman.'

'That isn't all I've come to tell you,' she replied. 'I come on behalf of the people of Riverwood. The smith there, Alvor, asks that you send soldiers to protect the village, in case the dragon returns and attacks. They have no other defenses.'

'Alvor?' Balgruuf straightened in his chair, suddenly thinking hard. 'Yes...I know the man you speak of. Blonde fellow, has a nephew in the Legion, if I'm not mistaken.' His brow furrowed. 'He's an upstanding citizen, and a sturdy sort of man...never prone to flights of fancy. If he vouches for you that a dragon really _did_ attack Helgen, then I have no choice but to believe it as truth.'

Irritation flickered in her—why would she come here just to tell lies? But she smothered her anger, and kept her voice level.

'So then, will you send aid to Riverwood?'

'...Yes.' Balgruuf stroked his beard with one hand, and looked past her into the flames in the pit. 'If a dragon burned Helgen, then I'll dispatch soldiers to Riverwood at once. Irileth,' he addressed his housecarl without looking up. 'Send a compliment of men down to Riverwood straight away.'

Irileth nodded and turned to go, but a petite and balding Imperial man rushed forward from where he'd been standing off to one side, his fussy face pinched with concern.

'Jarl Balgruuf, I think you are acting in too much haste. It would be unwise to send fully armored soldiers down through those woods. The Jarl of Falkreath might consider it a provocation. He may think we mean to attack him!'

The Jarl scowled. 'Proventus, I understand your concern. But between the two evils, the lesser is clear to me. I'll not sit idly by in this Keep while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people.' He turned to the Dunmer woman again. 'Irileth, send out the troops.'

She left, and now it was the Imperial's turn to scowl. 'Perhaps I should return to my other duties.'

She could've sworn she saw the Jarl roll his eyes. 'That would be best.'

They were now the only two people on the raised platform that held the throne, and after a moment, Merrin turned to go. She wasn't expecting any kind of reward or acknowledgement, and now it was time for her to start figuring out what her next step should be.

Balgruuf called to her as she lifted her foot to walk away. 'Hold there a minute.'

She turned back around to face him. 'Yes?'

'It was good of you to deliver that message for Alvor. Riverwood will be the better for it.'

He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, head cocked to one side, and then spoke again.

'Are you looking for paid work? You seem the right type for a job my court wizard has been trying to get done.'

Internally, she winced; she really _did_ try to stay away from the affairs of Jarl's courts—they'd never done anything but frustrate and annoy her. But how could she really afford to refuse? She barely had any money left from her trade in Riverwood.

Ultimately, the weightless feeling in her coinpurse compelled her to nod her head.

'Excellent, excellent.' He nodded his head at her, and got up out of his throne. 'Come with me, and I'll introduce you to Farengar. You might want to let _me_ do the talking, to start. Farengar, he's good at what he does, but he's a bit...well, you know. Mages.'

 _Fantastic._ She was already regretting agreeing to do the job, and she hadn't even heard what it was yet.

Balgruuf led her through a tall arching doorway that branched off to the left of his throneroom, and into the study of the court wizard. A dark wooden desk dominated the centre of the room, the surface covered in rolled out maps and piled dusty tomes, and glittering blue soul gems of varying sizes. Before she even saw the wizard, she had no doubt he'd be a Nord—he had a troll's skull for a paperweight.

Behind the desk along a back wall stood an alchemy table, its green bottles and tubes currently in the process of refining some dark, strong-smelling liquid over a small blue flame—she'd tried her hand determinedly at potion-making over the years, but was little more than hopeless at it, and she could only guess as to what the liquid was.

Beside the alchemy table was an _enchanting_ table, and _there_ she was much more at home; a tall man in navy robes was bent over the glowing runes, and he turned when Balgruuf called to him.

'Farengar! It would seem I've found you an able assistant to help you with your dragon project.'

 _Wait. This was about dragons?_ The Jarl conveniently hadn't mentioned that part.

The wizard turned to face them, and lowered his hood. He _was_ a Nord, with a long pointy chin and massive auburn mutton chops. He looked her over with obvious disapproval, and then met the stare of the Jarl.

'Jarl Balgruuf, are you certain? She doesn't look like she'd be much help to me.' His voice was pompous, his air self-important, and Merrin began to dislike him immediately. First impressions carried weight with her, and Farengar was scoring low.

Balgruuf frowned. 'Come now, old friend, give her a chance. This woman has proven herself a valuable ally to our Hold. I've no doubt she could handle the task you need done.'

The mage looked like he wanted to argue, but after a tense moment he conceded instead. 'Alright, alright.' His cold blue eyes shifted back to hers, and he stared her down as he addressed her directly.

'So, the Jarl thinks you could be of use for me? I need to have something fetched, and brought back to my laboratory. And when I say 'fetch', I mean delve deep into a dangerous ruin, to retrieve an ancient stone tablet that I can't guarantee will even _be_ there.' He smirked. 'Still think you're up to the challenge?'

Her eyes flashed. 'Just tell me where I'm going and what I'm looking for.'

The smirk widened. 'Ah. Straight to the point, eh? No compulsion to pester me with hows and whys—I like that. Best to leave those things to your betters, I'd say.'

She opened her mouth, sharp words on her tongue, but Balgruuf beat her to it.

'Farengar! You forget your place in my court! This is no way to treat an ally to our Hold.' He was looking angry, but not surprised, and he stared down the man in the blue robes until he cowed.

The mage looked embarrassed, and offered her a limp apology that he clearly didn't mean, and she didn't accept. Out of the frosty silence that ensued, he continued, considerably more awkwardly than before.

'I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in a Nordic Barrow not far from here. It's called the Dragonstone, and it supposedly carries a map of ancient dragon burial sites. You'd need to go to the Barrow, find the tablet—probably hidden away in the innermost chamber—and bring it back to me. Simple, right?'

'It shouldn't be a problem,' she said to him tersely. 'Where is this Barrow, exactly?'

'It's in the mountains just outside Riverwood. It's called—'

'Bleakfalls,' she finished for him. 'I've seen it before.'

He seemed surprised, but did his best to recover. 'So no need for further directions, then.'

'No. Will you be giving me the claw now, or before I leave?'

She was met with a profound and confused silence from both of the men in front of her, and their confusion only irritated her more. Surely, they hadn't overlooked...?

'The claw key?' she tried again, raising her arched brows. 'How do you expect me to get into Bleakfall's Hall of Stories without the corresponding claw key? You have it, don't you?'

Now _both_ men were looking thoroughly embarrassed. 'Ah...no,' Farengar finally muttered. 'The thought hadn't occurred...we don't have..'

Balgruuf was quickly going from embarrassed to angry, if his expressions were any reliable indicator, and he turned to Farengar with red tinging his cheeks. 'You mean you've been sending all these mercenaries out there with no way to even get _in_?'

 _How many people had tried_ _to do_ _this job before her?_ Again, unbidden, her mind flashed her an image of glowing blue eyes and grasping skeletal hands, and she had to repress a shudder.

Farengar floundered, and after several moments of uncomfortable silence, Merrin broke back in.

'It should be fine. The locks are specialized, but simple enough. If it comes down to it, I can fashion a dummy key.' She'd had to do it once before, and was confident that she could do it again—the most annoying part was standing around while you guessed at the ring combination.

Farengar was quick to grasp at this news, pouncing on it gratefully, and he recovered a hint of his old hot air.

'There, see? Finally, Balgruuf, you bring me someone resourceful.' He seemed stubbornly insistent on ignoring the fact that he'd blatantly declared her incapable the moment he met her, as well as the glares being leveled his way.

'Before I really take this job, I need one point clarified.' She turned to Balgruuf. 'Your court wizard has made it clear that the tablet I'm supposed to retrieve might not even be in the Barrow. If I don't find it, will I still get paid for my efforts?'

She had no problem working, but she wasn't charging into a draugr-infested barrow for free.

Balgruuf assured her immediately that yes, she'd be paid for her efforts whether she returned with the Dragonstone or not, but at his words Farengar clucked and fussed like a hen.

'But don't let that stop you from actually _looking_ for it—Dragonsreach isn't a charity!'

 _What a truly wonderful man_.

'Then it's settled. I'll set out for Bleakfalls first thing tomorrow morning, and come back with your tablet as soon as I'm finished.'

With the details settled, she couldn't wait to be out of the Keep. But before she turned to go, she stared pointedly at the work Farengar had left sitting behind him on the enchanter's table, and then pointedly back at him.

'And just by the by, you should be more careful. It's dangerous to leave a filled soul gem near an unwarded pentacle.'

Farengar started, and then balked. 'What? I would never...' He whipped his head around to look at his work, and when he turned slowly back around, his shoulders were coming up to meet his bright red ears. 'Ah. I see. So you are a fellow enchanter, then. Thank you for the reminder.'

He was looking properly humbled now, and from the look on Balgruuf's face, there was definitely going to be a conversation taking place once she was gone. Unable to help herself, she flashed him a wide smile, and with that she took her leave of the Jarl.

* * *

When she was safely outside again, being bathed in the early afternoon sun, she turned her thoughts to preparing for the trip ahead of her; if she was going to go do a dangerous job, she'd need more provisions—and once again, she had no money to buy them with.

She walked all the way back down through Whiterun and into the open-air market; it seemed to be the city's most commercial section, and when she got there she had a shop-keeper point her towards the inn.

The Bannered Mare was a cozy place, with a roaring fire in a lowered stone pit and snowberry wreathes decorating the walls. The walls themselves had three different looks; they were either weathered old shiplap, crumbling white plaster, or paintwashed a soft, lovely blue. The floor was knotted and scuffed, but there were hand-woven rugs laid down here and there, and candles sat flickering on every table. The barkeep called to her in a welcoming voice, telling her that she'd just put a fresh log on the fire. There were no other patrons just then, and she made her way quickly up to the bar.

The woman who'd called out to her was a sturdy Nord, with nut brown hair gathered up and away from a face with lines on it that spoke of her age, and she introduced herself as Hulda; when she asked Hulda if there was any work to be done in town, she was told that there was always money to be made by chopping wood for the tavern's fires.

So that was what Merrin did; Hulda handed her an axe from behind the bar, and she spent the next several hours outside. She chopped wooden logs and stacked them into piles until her arms felt like noodles, while an endlessly friendly man named Sigurd worked alongside her, making small talk and encouraging her to visit his boss's shop.

When the last of the wood she'd chopped was finally hauled inside, Hulda grabbed a sack of gold and extracted a number of coins that, while not by _much_ , was decidedly worth the effort, and piled them in front of Merrin on the bar. She immediately asked her if the inn had vacancy, and Hulda smiled and named a price. Merrin slid the requested number of septims back over the bar towards her before she slipped the rest into her own coinpurse. And then she went shopping.

In the slanted golden light of the setting sun, she bought apples and sweetrolls from a young girl at her mother's grocery stand, and traded off the farmer's cabbages for a few more coins apiece. After that, she ducked into the apothecary to buy magicka and stamina potions; the shopkeeper was a twitchy Imperial named Arcadia, who seemed convinced that Merrin had advanced Ataxia, and she hurried out of the shop as soon as she could.

She passed over Belethor's shop, despite Sigurd's enthusiastic advice.

But she _did_ go to the smithy named Warmaiden's, and was glad to discover that for a nominal fee, the smith would let her use their whet stones to sharpen her sword herself—'provided you know what you're _doing_ , of course.'

She looked at the tall, tawny woman named Adrienne, and cracked a smile as she set her pack down.

'I know what I'm doing, that I can promise.'

Adrienne gave her a quizzical look. 'Do you have experience with forging and repairs?'

'I do. I was a smith for years and years, before I left the province,' she confessed.

It felt strange to tell another person what she'd done with her life, before she'd taken up mercenary work; in the last four years, it hadn't come up once, and she had no idea why she offered the information now. Maybe it was the sense of kinship she'd felt with this woman, the moment she'd laid eyes on her. Or maybe she was missing her father more than usual.

In the end she supposed it didn't matter—Adrienne's eyes lit up at the information, and as she dragged out a wooden bucket for Merrin to use and filled it with water from the nearby stream, she told her how nice it was to see another female smith in Whiterun.

'It's hard to earn the same respect, as a woman,' she griped as she handed Merrin the smooth river stones. 'You know how it is. It's tough getting clientele to trust you with their _precious_ weapons. Bah. Let alone actually trying to get _paid_ what they'd hand over to a fellow man.'

'You've done well for yourself,' Merrin replied as she nodded. 'So you must've proven yourself in the end. I know what you mean, though; things weren't much different back home. But being the only option for miles helped some—a man is more willing to do fair trade if it's either pay up, or go into battle with a broken breastplate.' Her eyes danced as she looked at the other woman, and they shared a laugh before Merrin got to work.

'That's where our stories differ, then,' the woman said with a sigh, leaning against the same pillar she'd rested on earlier. 'I am _far_ from the only option Whiterun has. In fact, I have punishing competition.'

Something about the woman's words jogged Merrin's memory, and she put down the stone she'd been holding to look at her with sudden awe.

'That's right! You have to compete with Eorlund Grey-Mane.' She whistled. 'I don't envy you.'

Adrienne looked glum. 'There, you see? I'm not surprised that you've heard of him. People come from all over Skyrim for his steel.'

She laughed. 'I'm pretty sure my da was in love with him. All the while I was growing up, it was Eorlund this, and Eorlund that. He came to see the Skyforge once, and I begged him to take me, but he wouldn't. He talked about it for years after, though.'

They were happy memories, but it pained her to talk about them, and soon she let the story trail off. The other woman seemed to sense her subtle melancholy, but didn't press her further, changing the subject instead.

And Merrin was grateful. She'd always enjoyed talking shop with fellow blacksmiths, but it had been years since she'd had the opportunity, and she found herself laughing and enjoying Adrienne's company as she worked her way through the stones and brought her tired old sword to a wicked new edge.

Her initial liking for the woman had only grown as they'd worked side by side, and it seemed like the feeling was mutual, because after darkness had fallen around them outside, and as they cleaned up their messes, Adrienne turned to her and offered for her to come inside the house.

'You should meet my husband, Ulfberth. I'm sure he would like you, and its been too long since we've had company for supper. Won't you come in?'

The offer flattered her, and she gave her a warm smile. 'Under normal circumstances, I would say yes, and I thank you for the offer. But I have an early start and a long journey ahead of me tomorrow, and I need to be getting back to my room at the inn.'

Adrienne nodded her understanding, returning her smile. 'Some other time, then. The offer stands.'

They parted ways then, Adrienne calling out to wish her good luck on her journey before she went into her house for the night. People had lit their lanterns to see by, and as she made her way back to the inn, Merrin was feeling pleasantly surprised. She'd been travelling for the last four years, not really calling anywhere home, and she'd met all different kinds of people in that time. Some she counted as friends, but most she didn't, and it made her happy to have met someone in the city who's company she genuinely enjoyed.

Whiterun definitely had its annoyances, but there were good things about it, too.

As she pushed through the doors of the inn, she saw that where it had been empty, it was now bustling. She really _was_ getting tired, and wasn't feeling particularly sociable, so she decided to take dinner up in her room. She only paused in the kitchen long enough to ask the Redguard serving girl for some roast pheasant and leeks with a bottle of mead, and then handed over the money and headed upstairs to her room.

There was a bottle of alto wine sitting in a bowl on the bedside table, and a goblet perched beside it. So she poured herself a glass of the dry red wine and drank from it as she sat on the bed and went through her purchases, packing for the job ahead.

She was just about finished when there was a knock on her door, and the serving girl came in to hand Merrin her dinner. It was good, flavorful food, and she ate it at the small table set up in the corner, washing it down with her bottle of mead. Then she walked to the door, turned the lock, and blew out all the candles, undressing in the dark.

She crawled in just her smallclothes into the bed, settling into the straw mattress and pulling the red quilt up over her chest, and then she laid there with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The light from the firepit out in the main room just enough to see by.

She thought about the next day's job as she listened to the sounds of the merriment below.

When Hadvar had pointed out Bleakfalls to her on their way to Riverwood, she'd had no reason to believe that she'd ever be going inside. And now, one day later, that was _exactly_ where she was headed—in all likelihood, the stuff of his boyish nightmares was about to be her reality.

The gods had a strange sense of humor.

The long hard day and the strong, dark mead finally caught up with her then, and she pushed thoughts of draugr creeping up behind her forcefully from her mind as she snuggled deeper under the quilt.

It was the sweet sounds of the bard playing his lute downstairs that finally lulled her to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_14th Last Seed, 4E201_

 _In my latest dream, I see a line of every Harbinger who has ever lived, starting with Ysgramor._

 _We stand in Sovngarde, at the foot of the legendary Whalebone Bridge, and as I watch, each Harbinger steps forward, welcomed by Tsun, and walks into the Hall of Valor. Until we come to Terrfyg, the one who first burdened us with the blood of the beast._

 _He tries to follow his brothers and sisters before him, but before he can even set foot on the bridge, he is set upon by a great wolf, made of shadow and with eyes of fire, and the wolf pulls him into the Hunting Grounds. I can hear Hircine laughing as he opens his arms to Terrfyg._

 _And Terrfyg seems regretful, but also eager, in a way—eager to join his master, after a lifetime of service as a beast. He never looks back as he's dragged away._

 _From there, a terrible thing happened; every next Harbinger in the line turned willingly away from the Hall of Valor, and entered the Hunting Grounds of their own accord, walking along beside their own shadowy wolves. Fear picked at me as I watched them, growing into terror as my time came closer, and closer._

 _Too soon, it was my turn. I could see great Tsun standing on the other side of the bridge, beckoning to me through the shimmering mist. It appeared that I had a choice about where to go. And then I heard a snarling growl, and turned to see my own shadow wolf, stalking towards me, coming to drag me away from my ancestors and into Hircine's waiting arms._

 _My heart beat madly, and I reared back in fear. Suddenly, I felt a hand at my back. I whirled around, and came face to face with a stranger who hadn't been there before._

 _She had long, wild raven hair, and warm brown eyes that burned with courage and determination. She stared at the wolf with no trace of fear, and when she met my gaze, her bravery kindled my own. She had a sword in hand, and as she rose it, I felt the weight of my own warhammer at my back. I drew my weapon, and we charged the beast—determined to take it down together._

 _I realize that this is only a dream. But I can't help feeling like it still has meaning...I've had so few, throughout my lifetime. At any rate, it was a vivid enough dream to make a man like me take to writing, so it must be of some import. I will have to wait and see._

* * *

Merrin woke up before dawn's first light, and it took her a few seconds to remember where she was. The Bannered Mare was all but silent, save for the sound of the serving girl downstairs, doing her early morning chores.

It was dark in her room as she crawled out of bed, and she relit several candles to see by as she dressed.

First the grey cotton tunic, and then her brown cotton breeches. A pair of woolen socks.

She worked her way somewhat clumsily into her Imperial leathers, carefully feeling with her fingers to make sure she was doing each strap and buckle correctly. Proper armor was one of the first things she'd need, once she had money to buy it.

She was pleasantly surprised to see an oval mirror sitting on top of the room's dresser, leaning against the wall; Alvor and Sigrid hadn't had one in their house, and it had been a _very_ long time since she'd had a proper look at herself.

She dragged the chair over from the small table she'd eaten dinner at, and set it in front of the dresser. Then she lowered herself into the chair and pulled on the oversized leather boots—another thing she'd need to replace.

Finally, she turned and looked at herself.

In the flickering of the candle light, she eyed her own familiar features, and was relieved to see that nothing had changed.

Both of her parents were there, in her face; she resembled her mother more, with the same strong, high cheekbones and shape of eye, the same full lips and arching brows. But her father's genes had had their say. Her skin was lighter than her mother's because of him, and a smattering of his ever-present freckles covered the bridge of her aquiline nose. Beneath his fiery beard, he'd had the same pointed chin.

Her only contribution was one long scar; a crooked slash across the right side of her jaw, from her cheek to under her bottom lip, shining pink in the dancing light.

She groaned; she'd also inherited her father's unruly hair. Her thick black waves were a tangled mess, and she worked hard to smooth it through with her fingers before she plaited it into a braid.

She didn't linger at the mirror any longer than she needed to. In another minute she'd belted her scabbard around her waist with her sword already sheathed inside, and slung her bow and knapsack over her back. Then she blew out the candles and opened the door.

She passed through the inn without saying anything to the woman preparing breakfast in the kitchen, and slipped unnoticed into the brisk pre-dawn.

Whiterun was sleeping with the exception of the guards, who were making their way along their patrols with their torches still lit in the pearly haze. She nodded at the two men guarding the gate, and neither said anything as they nodded back.

* * *

Merrin had always loved this time of the day—when all was still and mostly quiet, bathed in the glow of approaching light. Everything wrapped in a lovely kind of hush, as if all the world were holding its breath, and the rising sun would bring the exhale.

The sun broke the edge of the horizon as she was walking down the long road that bowed from the city, and she tilted her face up to the first warm rays. Outside the city walls, the world around her was in various states of waking; the farmers were already tending their fields, their bodies moving in silhouette, and the warmth from the sun turned the dew in the fields into low hanging clouds of shimmering mist.

She only crossed paths with a few other people on her way down the road towards Riverwood. A pair of hunters with packs full of pelts emerged from the woods and hailed as they passed her, making their way towards the city to sell their furs. Not long after, a courier ran up behind her, quickly surpassing her and continuing on his way, paying her no mind at all.

She had a sweetroll to break her fast while she walked, and by the time she could see Riverwood in the distance, the sun had properly risen into the sky. There was no path to the Barrow from the village itself, and she turned instead off of the Emperor's road, and onto a winding dirt path into the woods.

It was a confusing and roundabout path, and she figured out fast that the way up to the Barrow wasn't as straight forward as she'd thought.

What had started out as a brisk morning was growing into a humid day, and the path she was climbing was steeply uphill. Soon, the sound of her cursing mixed with the chirring insects in the trees as she felt sweat running down her back. The too-large armor trapped even more heat, and she could feel her mood souring as she clambered through the brush.

It was hard not to be angry. She was struggling through these woods to make money to live by, and when she'd come into Skyrim six days earlier, she'd had everything she could've needed. She'd had gold and provisions, a good bow and arrows, shoes that actually fit her feet. She'd been wearing armor that she'd made for herself, and a sword that she'd specially forged. And then because of bad timing and sloppy decisions, it had all been taken away from her.

The money was a hit, for sure, but the loss of the sword was what rankled the most; all of Merrin's most personal possessions had been stored away for safe keeping before she'd left Skyrim back in 197. So the Imperials hadn't gotten their greedy hands on those. But the sword was special to her, and she'd never get it back.

Several minutes later, her dark ruminations were abruptly cut off by the path opening up, and her catching a glimpse of an old stone archway jutting over the treetops ahead. She hurried towards it, and after another minute, she scrambled up a pebbly shelf and found herself staring at the massive Barrow.

It was much, much bigger than it had looked from the road far below with Hadvar. The stone arches must have been jutting a hundred feet into the sky, a marvel of technology for the time, and an enormous stone staircase met with the mountain in front of where she stood.

As she ascended the staircase, she rose higher than the trees, and a wind picked up around her that cooled her off. It was hard to be humid, at altitudes like these.

She avoided the look-out points to her left, with their spectacular views and non-existent railings, and headed to her right instead. In no time at all, Merrin found herself standing in front of the two huge carved iron doors that would lead her into the Barrow, hidden cleverly behind a stone pillar.

Her thoughts flashed to Hadvar, probably on his way to Solitude by now. What he would say, if he could see her now!

She drew her sword from its sheath, took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed open the heavy doors.

Within seconds, it became obvious to her that she wasn't alone in the Barrow. The light from a campfire was bouncing off the walls at the far end of a long crumbling hallway, and she could hear two people bickering in the same direction.

'I say that we go after Arvel. Bjorn should've been back with word by now, anyway!'

'This isn't your decision, Solin. You heard Arvel—guard the gear, he said. Watch the door. How do you expect to make it out of here with _anything_ if you can't follow simple instructions? If we screw up, we won't get our cut.'

 _Bandits._ She snorted quietly in disgust. It wasn't the first time she'd found some sort of lowlife criminal squatting in a Barrow; if you were in a pinch, the front rooms were easy shelter, and Barrows in more remote locations were prime targets for looters.

These ones seemed to be pretty amateur. They were arguing so loudly that they didn't even hear her re-sheath her sword and string her bow instead—and they _obviously_ weren't doing a good job of watching the door. She crept a few steps forward and grimaced when she saw another two bandits laying dead in front of her, obviously killed by some dead skeevers nearby.

She could see the bandits clearly now, from her spot behind a leaning stone pillar. One man, one woman, both of them lightly armored, neither of them wearing helmets. She sighed.

Merrin had no great love for killing people—next to the traveling, the reason she'd become a mercenary was to _protect_ people. But Skyrim's laws on bandits were clear-cut.

It would be impossible for her to sneak around them, so she took care of them instead; the first arrow she loosed buried itself in the side of the male bandit's neck, and he died quickly with a gurgling rasp. His companion noticed immediately and screamed in fear, but she was stupid enough to dart towards her comrade instead of towards cover, and Merrin's second arrow lodged in her chest. It was a clean shot, and the woman's death was quick; Merrin waited to make sure the scream hadn't attracted any more bandits, and then stepped out of the shadows and walked up to the bodies. The woman had been an archer, and Merrin took the arrows out of her quiver and transferred them to her own before she continued onward, not bothering with the chest they'd been guarding.

She descended into a network of tunnels that were labyrinthine and crumbling. The ancient Nords had preferred circular tunnels, made of stone and full of elaborate carvings; the tunnels she walked through now were ruined and full of rubble, breaking apart after thousands of years, with moss and ferns covering the floor and a network of tree roots climbing the walls. She had to watch her step carefully to make sure she didn't trip, and even though she hadn't reached the crypts yet, her ears were strained for the sounds of approaching draugr.

It was as she was walking past yet another lit brazier and creeping down a worn stone staircase that she heard a human's muttered curse.

As she ducked especially low, Merrin could see that there was another bandit standing in the room at the bottom of the stairs; he was standing in front of a lever that presumably opened a gated doorway, and staring to his left at a trio of stone pillars. They were pretty common in the Nordic Barrows; the idea was that if you turned the pillars in the correct combination, the lever would open the door, no problem. But from the sound of this bandit's muttering, he was finished trying to figure it out.

'Oh, piss on it!' And he reached out and pulled the lever.

Merrin winced, but there was nothing she could do. In an instant, what must have been twenty poisoned darts came shooting from holes in the walls in all directions, and _most_ of them found the bandit's flesh. He howled in astonished pain, and in a second or two he had staggered, hands scrabbling against his skin, and fallen flat on his back. His legs and arms were twitching wildly, and foam started bubbling from his mouth.

He died with a terrible rasping gurgle, and then he was still on the cold stone floor.

Nausea and pity both bit at her—bandit or no, it was an awful way to die, and her chest was tight when she finished descending the staircase and walked up to his pale corpse. His eyes were wide open and bulging, and she knelt down to close them before she looked at the pillars.

She'd solved this kind of puzzle several times before, and it didn't take her long to work out the combination. She turned the pillars so that they presented two snakes and then a whale, and then she stepped over the bandit's body and pulled the lever again herself.

She got a much different response than the dead man beside her; the metal gate blocking the passageway came shooting up and out of her way, locking in place so that she could pass through.

Beyond that door, the Barrow started looking much more untouched. Thicker and thicker cobwebs came sweeping across the ceiling, and only the occasional brazier was lit, making it almost impossible to see. If she strained her eyes, Merrin could make out a single set of footsteps disturbing the thick layer of dust on the floor.

 _Still_ she didn't hear any draugr, but her ears were straining to catch the smallest sound; if there was any way she could avoid getting snuck up on, she was going to do it.

She'd been inching her way through the darkness for several minutes when natural light started sifting through it, and she noticed then that the walls, floors, and ceilings around her were entirely coated in spiderwebs. Merrin grimaced; she had a pretty good idea of what was ahead.

The sudden sound of someone frantically shouting for help had her jumping a foot in the air.

'Help, help! Is anybody there? Horknir! Bjorn, Solin! Somebody, _help_!'

She dashed around the corner ahead, and in the next room she found the source of the crying pleas.

At the far end of a long room covered _entirely_ in webs, a Dunmer bandit was thrashing around, hopelessly caught up in a thick layer of spider's webbing that covered the room's other exit.

A jagged hole in the ceiling here was the source of the natural light she'd been following, and in the bright light she could see the man's expression of relief; he stopped his thrashing, and called out to her.

'Hey, you! Oh, thank goodness you're here! Please, come and help me, I can't move!'

It looked as if he'd gotten stuck trying to leap through the webs in the doorway. Warily, she took another step towards him.

'How did you end up stuck like that?'

'There's no time for questions like that,' he insisted. 'You have to _hurry_ , before it comes back!'

She'd opened her mouth to ask what 'it' was, but before she'd made a sound, she got her answer; through the hole in the ceiling came crawling a Frostbite spider that dwarfed the ones she'd had to kill with Hadvar.

The Dunmer went pale as the spider descended, his dark eyes bulging as he started to gibber. Then his gibbering turned to shrieking, and he started screaming hysterically as he thrashed in the web, begging her not to let it get him.

He was screaming for nothing—the spider wasn't interested in _him_. Immediately it scuttled straight for her, mouth foaming and mandibles clacking, and it covered the distance between them almost instantly.

 _Oh, shi—_ Merrin tossed her bow away somewhere to the side and ripped her sword out of its sheath, bringing it up just in time as the spider lunged at her. What would've been a punishing bite got countered when she managed to force her blade between its foamy mandibles, but the spider was easily bigger than she was, and it had the upper hand in weight and strength. She stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and the erratic movement was the only thing that saved her from catching a sudden spray of green poison directly to the face.

'Kill it, kill it, for Azura's sake woman, _kill it_ ,' the Dunmer bandit screamed from up ahead.

She ignored him—she _had_ to, if she was going to win this fight. When she'd stumbled, she'd noticed that the spider was missing its front left leg, and now an idea was forming quickly in her head.

Keeping her knees bent, she sliced out in an arc with her sword, aiming for the front _right_ leg, and the steel of her blade swept clean through the spider's exoskeleton with a disgusting _crunch_. The severed leg fell to the floor with a thud, and the spider hissed like a tea kettle as it bobbed down and forward, trying to adjust.

Now was her chance.

With a mighty yell, she launched herself at the spider, leaping into the air before she could actually hit it and managing to connect chest-first with what would've been its shoulder. It was a struggle to hang on to her blade, and the spider shrieked and started trying to shake her off, but Merrin was stubborn and wouldn't be dislodged; she grabbed a fistful of its bristling brown body hair, and when her foot found purchase against another spindly leg, she used all the strength she could muster to boost herself onto its back.

The spider started bucking and rearing like a horse, and she almost fell a handful of times as she shimmied painstakingly towards the giant monster's head, but she finally managed to get there, and locked her knees around its narrower neck. She was lucky that the spider hadn't thought to climb a wall to escape—if it had, she probably would've broken _her_ neck.

Finally in position, Merrin gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands, and brought it down with a triumphant yell directly through the top of the spider's head.

The creature let out a terrible shriek and blue blood started pooling around her sword, but she could tell in a second that something was wrong; it staggered around, but didn't die like she'd expected. She cursed herself for her stupidity—she must not have actually reached the brain.

The spider was enraged now, and it gave a mighty heave that she couldn't compete with—jamming her sword through its hard carapace had wrenched both of her arms, and it was all she could do to take her sword with her as she tumbled off the spider's back and landed on the stone floor below with a thud.

The fall had knocked the wind right out of her, and she struggled to take a breath as the spider whirled around. It was in a frenzy, poison dripping from its mouth, and it gave another scream as its many eyes locked onto her. It surged forward, and Merrin did the only thing she could do—she lifted her sword.

Her blade came thrusting up just as the spider's hungry mouth came surging down, and this accident of timing achieved what Merrin's plan hadn't; the steel of the blade stabbed into the spider's maw, its own weight and the angle of the blade causing it to carry through, all the way to the brain behind.

It gave one more scream, and then the spider slumped forward, dead, the change in positioning nearly breaking Merrin's arm, and the weight of its body pinning her to the floor.

The Dunmer started screaming triumphantly in front of her, but she had no time to celebrate; she had a serious problem.

When the spider had run itself through with her sword, her arm had been dragged deep into its maw, tearing her skin, and now acidic blood and poison alike were both seeping into her various wounds. She was officially poisoned.

'Hey! You won! Are you still alive in there?'

Merrin only groaned in response. This poison wouldn't take long to spread; she could already feel the chill gripping her body. If it fogged her brain, she didn't have a chance. She let go of her sword and withdrew her arm, stifling her moans of pain as every cut and tear were newly aggravated. Cradling the wounded arm against her chest, she started feeling around with the other for a way to escape.

By the time she found a small opening between two crumpled legs, her breathing was seriously labored. She twisted her body into a painful, unnatural position, and laboriously scooted inch by inch until her head and chest were freed. With her knapsack on, she barely fit; she had to kick with all her strength to push herself the rest of the way through. When she finally wrenched herself from under the spider's heavy body, she laid limp against the cold stones, her face bathed in slanted sunlight, and didn't move at all.

She didn't know how much time passed, then. It was the Dunmer man who jarred her back to her senses.

'Hey, Nord! Wake up! You can't just let the poison take you.' His voice was loud, cajoling, and full of fear. 'If you die, then who will get me out of here?'

His motives were selfish, but his message hit home—she had no intention of dying in this crumbling ruin.

Feeling like her muscles were made of rope, Merrin forced herself onto her side, and took a second to look at her injury. Her right arm was a total mess; long, deep scratches were full of sticky black blood that the poison had quickly coagulated, and pus that was a nauseating shade of green was already oozing from the centres of the wounds. Her skin itself had gone an ashy sort of purple, and her veins were corded starkly against the surface.

She sucked in a sharp breath, and shoved down the urge to either scream or vomit. Determination stirred back to life as she clamped her good hand painfully around her forearm.

She opened her channel of restorative magic, and the cobwebby room was bathed in golden light as she started leeching the poison from her body and knitting shut her torn up flesh.

It was slow going and difficult work; she'd almost been too late when she started, and the effects of the poison had exhausted her. The level of improvement she saw was just enough to keep her going, and it took several minutes of determined casting to achieve what she could normally do in moments.

But in the end, she _did_ achieve her goal: with the help of the magic coursing through her, her arm at last returned to normal, the skin smooth and unblemished, and the poison burned out and fizzled in her veins. Her vision had gradually cleared as she'd worked, and after long moments, her breathing slowed.

For at least a minute, she just laid there, gingerly testing how she felt. It had been a long time since she'd been poisoned, and never this badly. She wanted to make sure she'd actually recovered.

And the reality was that she was still exhausted; if she was going to finish the job she'd come here to do, she was going to have to perk herself up.

Slowly and stiffly, she finally sat up. The Dunmer started clamoring for her attention the second he saw her moving again, but she only shook her head at him.

'Give me a minute.'

She pulled her pack from her shoulders and opened it up, rifling inside until she found what she wanted, and then withdrew from the bag with a green bottle clutched in her fist. She uncorked the stamina potion with her teeth, and then belted back the bitter, syrupy liquid.

She drank the whole thing, and as she did, much-needed strength and energy came flowing back into her body. She flexed her fingers and took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders and shaking her head. She tossed the empty bottle back into her bag and pulled herself steadily to her feet, finally feeling normal again.

She re-shouldered her pack and then walked across the room. She retrieved her bow from where she'd thrown it, satisfied with its apparently unharmed condition. Then she looked determinedly at the corpse of the spider.

It took some finessing, but after a minute she'd managed to lift the spider's head with an old leg bone from one of its previous kills. She could see the hilt of her sword buried there, glinting in the sunlight, and she reached gingerly into its ruined mouth to yank the blade free of the steaming maw. She smiled to herself with satisfaction, and wiped the mess of blood and poison off on some nearby ferns. She took her time re-sheathing her blade, and then she gave her armor a once over.

Only then did she look up, and meet the bandit's eyes.

* * *

The bandit had been eager to see himself out of that webbing, and it made him generous with his information. Immediately, he'd introduced himself as Arvel, and thanked her profusely for saving him. Then he'd begged her once again to hurry up and free him, before anything else came crawling along.

When she'd hesitated, Arvel had been quick to offer her a deal; if she cut him loose, he'd be happy to take her with him through the rest of the Barrow, and when they reached the Hall of Stories, he would split the treasure with her.

She'd asked him how he planned on getting inside, not expecting him to have an answer. But the Dunmer had surprised her.

'I have a key, a golden claw. And I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories—I know how they all fit together! Help me down and I'll _show_ you. You won't believe the riches that the Nords stashed in there.'

 _The golden claw._ As she'd stood there in front of him, the pieces had clicked together. _These_ were the very bandits she'd been hired to look for; the bandits that had broken into Valerius' shop. Lucan hadn't known that the claw really _was_ a key to an ancient Barrow, and by sheer coincidence, it happened to be the very Barrow that she needed to get into.

Internally, she'd made note of this stroke of fortune, amidst all the bad luck she'd been having; it looked like she wouldn't be needing to make a dummy key after all.

She hadn't let on that she knew of his crimes. As she'd cut him loose, Arvel had crowed in triumph, thanking her warmly again and again. His dark eyes entreated her, and his expression was trustworthy—jovial, even. But Merrin wasn't fooled. He was telling her that the two of them could be allies, but he was a looter and a thief—it was only a matter of time until he turned on her. It didn't escape her notice that he asked no questions about how she'd got there, and he didn't once ask about any of his friends.

In the end, she'd decided that this suited her fine; two able bodies would make it through the draugr's crypts more easily than she could alone, and when the time came that she had to fight, she was confident she would win. And so she'd feigned ignorance, and accepted his offer, asking him to lead the way.

She'd waited for draugr in vain up until then, but in no time at all, they were entering the actual crypts.

It hadn't been long before they'd encountered what Merrin had been dreading most; they were descending a crumbling staircase when they heard a menacing growl.

They had only the light of two torches to guide their steps, but it was easy to see the piercing blue of glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. The draugr shuffled towards them both, its withered body shambling on broken feet. Its jaw was unhinged, and its face was crusted in dried blood—it had obviously encountered something else, recently. It growled and cursed as it raised its ancient axe, its guttural voice speaking in a tongue she couldn't understand.

The draugr were dead, and it made them slow; as it had approached, she had clamped viciously down on her fear, and forced herself to jump into action. She had lunged towards the draugr with a whooping yell, and had severed its head from its emaciated shoulders with a single hard stroke of her blade.

Arvel had been slower on the uptake, and he stared at her open-mouthed as she whirled around to face him, eyes alight and teeth bared.

'Mephala's tits! You really _do_ know what you're doing. Let's hope we don't run into any more, eh?'

But it had been a ridiculous hope, one she didn't even bother sharing. As they plunged into the following rooms with their torches held high and their muscles taut, more of the cursed undead sought them out; papery skin stretched over their ancient bones as they staggered towards them with their weapons raised, and neither of them dared to relax for a moment.

They passed through several different rooms, Merrin careful to stay behind him—through crumbling hallways that were mostly collapsed, up a ruined staircase into a room with a waterfall, where draugr wandered around mindlessly and attacked them as soon as they drew near. They scurried through a long, dark crevice with an ice cold river rushing around their ankles, and twice Merrin took advantage of corridors with swinging axe traps, darting between the slicing blades and luring the much slower draugrs chasing her to a permanent death.

It was harrowing work. Corpses you thought were actually dead would suddenly try to grab you as you passed, skeletal claw hands groping wildly after you as they dragged themselves from their tombs to fight—once, Arvel narrowly avoided a sword through the ribs when a draugr took him by surprise.

She couldn't let her guard down next to _Arvel,_ either; her fights were made harder by keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn't take advantage of her distraction. And whenever they fought in a larger skirmish, she made sure to keep him ahead of her, in case he got the idea to try and shove her into a draugr's waiting arms.

She wondered when they'd ever make it to the Sanctum; long after the groups of draugr had thinned, they continued to wind their way through endless tunnels. They were old and crumbling, some no better than oversized rabbit warrens, and sometimes they opened up into earthen caverns, with coursing rivers rushing beside them and clusters of glowing mushrooms climbing the rocky walls.

In the spaces between fighting, Arvel had taken to grandstanding loudly, telling her about what kinds of treasures they'd find beyond the Hall of Stories. She didn't point out that he had no way of knowing the things he claimed; it really didn't matter enough. He didn't watch well enough where he was going, and at one point he ran through the shallow water they'd been following and barely managed to pull up short before he plummeted over the edge of a sudden cavern. The river had come to a waterfall, and the sharp rocks at the bottom of the swirling stone cauldron left no doubt about the fate of anyone unlucky enough to fall.

'Careful,' she said tonelessly. 'Watch where you're going, or you won't make it to the Hall.'

They took a roundabout path spiralling downward instead, taking out a lone draugr on it's shuffling patrol, before they crossed a natural earthen bridge with the waters swirling and churning just below. The bandit beside her would've had a fair chance of drowning her if he'd shoved her into the seething current, but he never tried, and she gritted her teeth as her shoulder blades itched in anticipation— _what was he waiting for?_

She had no choice but to keep wondering. They'd scrambled up a steep dirt incline and through another hole in the wall, and came upon a draugr armed with an ancient battle axe, standing at the ready, guarding a set of wood and wrought-iron double doors. Arvel was excited to see them, thinking they led to the Hall of Stories, but after they'd cut the draugr down and lifted the bar on the heavy doors, it was obvious to her that such wasn't the case.

If she had to guess, she'd say they'd entered the first Sanctum; this section of the Barrow was much more impressive, with sweeping grand ceilings and arching bridges and long staircases with carved balustrades. Dusty metal stands holding old empty soul gems started flanking their paths, and Arvel learned the hard way that to knock one over was to draw unwanted attention.

There wasn't much time for talking _or_ brooding—draugr were gathered here in much greater numbers, and she'd taken to setting her torch on the ground and using her bow instead, to try and thin the numbers from afar.

Just when Arvel was starting to suggest in an uneasy voice that maybe they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, they came across a room so badly destroyed that it had obviously suffered a cave in at some point. He thought that they should turn around, but when Merrin lifted her torch high behind him to illuminate the room, they saw another set of impressive double doors, and he quickly changed his mind. They clambered over large chunks of fallen stone and pushed open the great double doors, and _there_ , at last, was the Hall of Stories.

They both hurried inside, Arvel whooping as quietly as he could, and she immediately closed the heavy doors behind them. Arvel lit the cold and dusty braziers with the fire from his torch, exclaiming as he went, and cast flickering orange light over the long and silent hall. It stretched ahead of her, the puzzle door waiting at the end barely visible in the dim light of the fires.

She'd only been in one other Hall of Stories, and as she walked, she admired. The walls were covered in ancient Nordic carvings that had once depicted great battles and deeds, and she thought she could make out pictures of several of the Divines. But so ancient was the Barrow and so eroded were the walls that large sections were now entirely meaningless.

He didn't move to make his inevitable betrayal until they'd reached the massive puzzle door. Merrin sensed the subtle change in the air—noted his shifting stance. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head; no more draugr meant that their usefulness to one another had come to an end. She turned to face him, and for a second they were both utterly quiet. Then Arvel slicked an especially charming smile over his face, and dug something out of his pack. 'Here,' he said, and when he extended his hand towards her, the golden claw was resting in it.

'The key to the door? What about it?' Merrin was careful to keep her voice neutral.

His smile widened. 'I wouldn't have made it this far without you. I think it's only fair that _you_ be the one to open the door.' He chuckled, and his expression was the picture of humility. Merrin's stomach muscles bunched.

 _So he's either hoping some trap in the door will kill me, or he's planning on doing it himself while my back is turned._

It turned out to be her second guess; she'd taken the claw from his outstretched hand and had just started working to turn the first wheel when her straining ears picked up the barely perceptible sound of something sliding from a leather sheath.

She'd been ready for him, every muscle tight with anticipation, and she was quick enough when she dodged to the side so that his intended stab was only a slice; his dagger slashed into the armor at her side instead of the muscles of her back, and his eyes were alight with surprised terror when she whirled around to face him.

She didn't waste time or energy; she grabbed his wrist and slammed the hand holding the dagger into the rock wall. He yowled with pain and dropped the knife, and then she took him by the other shoulder and slammed his _face_ into the wall, instead. He staggered away, spluttering, and while he was disoriented, she stooped and grabbed the dagger he'd dropped. He saw her coming and tried to fight her off, but the adrenaline surging through her gave her the upper hand, and after a brief struggle she plunged his own dagger deep into his throat.

She shoved him away from her as his hands came up to the wound in his neck, and his dark eyes bulged in horror and surprise. Killing people had never gotten easier for her, and there was almost as much remorse as anger in her eyes as she stood there and watched him die.

When all was silent again, she stood there, trembling. She'd _expected_ his attack—that didn't mean she'd _wanted_ it.

'You fucking bastard,' she whispered to Arvel's body. 'Why did you have to do it?'

Then she closed her eyes, and tried to force her body to calm down.

After a minute of even breathing, she felt calm enough to turn around, and examine the door behind her. She knew that the combination to the door would be on the back of the claw; when she flipped it around in her hand she saw a bear, a moth, and an owl carved there.

She could barely reach the highest ring even despite her height, and it took her a minute to turn the heavy stone wheel until it displayed a carving of a bear. The other two rings went much more quickly, and in another minute she was shoving the talons of the golden claw into the lock, and twisting.

The grinding of the massive stone door coming down attracted the attention of several draugr at once, and without the bandit's help, they were all her problem. She had to fight extra hard to take them all down, _and_ not get maimed in the process; by the time she watched the light from the last draugr's eyes flicker out as it crumpled, she was breathing hard, and had bruises blooming.

She squared her shoulders determinedly, and marched into the inner Sanctum.

* * *

What Merrin saw when she cleared the dusty entrance took her breath away.

She'd walked into a massive cavern. Daylight streamed through crumbling holes in the soaring stone ceiling, and it made her torch unnecessary, providing enough light for her to see by. The sound of rushing water was overwhelming; waterfalls fell in a cascade around the room, coming straight from the stony walls, and a river rushed by under an arching footbridge. The entire place felt ancient and untouched, but in some ways it wasn't; as she stood there gaping, a colony of bats suddenly flew past her, shrieking at her intrusion as they settled higher up in the lofty ceiling.

She could see a raised platform at the top of a staircase, with a chest and a sarcophagus just sitting there. If the Dragonstone was in the Sanctum, that platform was its most likely hiding place, and she started walking forward to investigate.

That was when she heard the chanting voices.

Startled, she jumped and looked around, certain she'd missed someone else in the Sanctum—but no one was there. She was in the echoing room alone. As she looked around, the voices continued.

They were low, but urgent, keeping a fast rhythm, and they spoke the same language that the draugr had growled. For reasons she couldn't begin to explain, something about them made her want to come forward, deeper into the room.

She gave in to the urge, and as she walked forward, the voices grew slightly louder. All at once, she realized where they seemed to be coming from—a tall, curving, man made wall at the back of the raised platform ahead.

Merrin was inexplicably drawn to that wall, and as she came closer she saw the head of a dragon carved into its stony face, centered high above her. Absently, she acknowledged that this should have made her wary, but she felt no apprehension as the voices guided her forward.

She saw as she drew nearer that there were strange runes carved into the wall; when she was still several paces away, one of the groupings started to glow. It was a chilling, eerie, icy blue, the exact same color as the draugr's eyes, and as soon as it started, the chanting got dramatically louder.

 _Wait!_ Internally, Merrin shook herself, and forced herself to stop walking.

An icy cold fear suddenly gripped her as she stood there—what if the glowing symbols were some sort of rune trap? She hadn't come all this way just to get killed by a lousy spell.

She took a step back, not wanting to set it off by being too close.

Instantly, the chanting got exponentially louder—it sounded like there was a group of men standing beside her in the echoey chamber, shouting at the top of their lungs. It didn't stop there; just as the chanting became all she could hear, drowning out every single other noise, a blueish white light came shooting from the glowing rune on the wall, and rushed directly towards her.

She had no time to run, or even to move, and she stared in horror as the light hit her directly in the chest.

The moment it hit her, Merrin went rigid. An energy unlike any she'd ever felt before was coursing through her body, heating her blood, making her vision darken and swim. She was suddenly incredibly dizzy, and she staggered back, catching an old metal stand holding a soul gem and knocking it over with a ringing crash.

She grabbed her forehead and bent over double, each breath a tearing gasp, and for several seconds she couldn't see. Fear shot through her like a bolt of lightning— _what the hell was happening to her?!_

And then from the darkness that had swallowed her sight, the glowing runes came swimming back to the surface, exactly the way they'd looked on the wall. But as the strange and terrifying energy coursed through her, she could suddenly understand their meaning. They came together to spell a single word.

 _Force._

As soon as she comprehended the word, the effects of the strange magic started to fade. The chanting quieted, reduced to a whisper, and soon she was standing there, dazed and out of breath, but with her heart rate slowing and her vision restored.

She bit back a fearful moan, and cursed as she trembled where she stood. What on earth had just happened to her? This was magic that she wasn't familiar with, and she was terrified that she'd just been hit with some kind of slow-acting spell that would sicken her, or worse. The seconds ticked by, and Merrin waited anxiously for any negative effect from whatever had hit her. But eventually she had to admit that she was back to feeling perfectly normal.

She shook herself, calling on her discipline. It was time to get what she came for, and leave.

She'd taken a single step towards the chest on the platform when the lid of the sarcophagus came flying off with a startling _crack_ , hitting the stone steps and shattering. The noise was deafening in the quiet cavern, and Merrin jumped and had to bite back a scream. When she saw a withered and skeletal hand rise up and grip the side of the casket, she cursed again and drew her sword.

The draugr that climbed out of that sarcophagus was not like the others she'd faced in the Barrow. He radiated a terrible kind of energy, and when he looked at her and opened his sagging mouth, it wasn't a harmless growl that came out.

' _Fus...RO!'_

This draugr could Shout. His words swept out on a wave of solid energy that crashed right into her and knocked her off balance, slamming her into the wall behind her. Her head connected sharply with the rock, and the hit left her winded and dazed, her vision spotting.

The strange comprehension hadn't left her—in the back of her mind, she took note of what he'd said.

 _Force. Balance._

She was pulled sharply back into focus by the sound of booted feet rushing toward her; the draugr was charging towards her now, a greatsword that still looked wickedly sharp raised high and clutched in his bony hands.

She barely moved out of the way in time. The sound of the draugr's enormous sword hitting the stone wall beside her went ringing through the cavern, and it Shouted another blast of energy at her that she only just managed to avoid as she went leaping out of the way.

It devolved into a dangerous fight for her, in which she didn't have many options. Her sword was useless against the full set of steel armor that the draugr wore, and the combat was too close for her to dare trying her bow. She had to stay constantly on guard to avoid her opponent's punishing blows; one good hit could be enough to finish her, depending on where it landed. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the enemy's sword had been enchanted to deal frost damage—the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees, just from him swinging it around.

Her only advantage was her speed. Centuries of decay had made the draugr stiff, and it was impossible for him to match her pace. He had the deadlier weapon, but she had the superior reflexes, and as she gave him the runaround on the platform, an idea took shape in her head. It was risky, without a doubt. But what other choice did she have?

'Hey, Corpse-Breath! I don't have all day!'

She yelled at the draugr, taunting him as she skirted out of the range of his blade, and then she ran towards the edge of the platform. The staggering corpse snarled and gnashed his teeth, before he chased after her as fast as his withered legs would carry him.

When she got to the top of the crumbling stone staircase, she whirled around and watched him advance on her. The timing had to be just right, or her plan wouldn't work.

Merrin held her ground as he closed the distance, didn't flinch as he raised his sword. She let him get closer than he'd been since the first strike, the one that had almost run her through. And at the very last second, she dodged to the side.

The force of the draugr's wild swing made him stagger as he lost his balance, and he teetered over the edge of the steps as Merrin ducked around him. With a roar, she planted a foot in his back, and kicked him forward with all her strength, sending him toppling down the crooked stone stairs.

From there, the fate of the battle was decided. The draugr had been a formidable opponent, but his armor was useless as he crashed against the stones, and she could hear the snapping and crunching of brittle bones as he went flying down the steps. By the time he came to rest on the cavern floor, he was nothing but a torso and a head, his arms and legs in shattered pieces around him, his greatsword pinned uselessly underneath him.

It was said that the draugr felt no pain, and it was easy then for Merrin to believe the stories; this one glared up at her balefully from the hard stone floor, seeming unperturbed at the loss of his limbs. She had to dodge another Shout as she ran down the steps, and when she raised her sword up over his head, he snapped his jaws and growled at her just as fiercely as he had when he'd first clambered from his tomb to attack her.

She brought the sword down and gave it a twist, and the eyes went dark, the body finally still.

She only took a moment to collect herself, reining in her thundering heartbeat. Then she straightened up and looked around. She kept her sword out just in case, but nothing else came crawling out of the stone to challenge her.

She found the Dragonstone tucked away in the inside of the draugr's sarcophagus, and she wasn't terribly impressed; it was an old stone tablet with its etchings nearly completely eroded, and when she tried to make sense of the writing, she couldn't. She wrapped it in a roll of old linen before she slid it into her pack for safe keeping, and then turned her attention to the ornate wooden and iron chest.

She was _much_ happier with what she found in there—a dagger enchanted to absorb your opponent's stamina, a handful of garnets and amethysts, and several magic scrolls that looked like their wards were still functional, even after all this time. Her financial situation was looking up...she just had to find an interested buyer, after she'd given the Jarl his Dragonstone.

With everything worth taking packed into her rucksack, Merrin turned her attention towards finding the nearest exit. She knew from the one other Sanctum she'd seen that there would likely be an exit nearby.

After a minute of searching, she found what she wanted; she climbed another even longer, steeper staircase, and at the top of that staircase was a hidden lever. When she pulled the handle, a section of rock came rolling away to expose the twisting stone tunnel behind it.

She ran down that tunnel, and when she finally reached the end, warm afternoon sunlight hit her face, and she was greeted once again by the sounds of the forest.

* * *

The sun was setting over Riverwood as she pushed through the door to the Trader.

Lucan's eyes lit up when she pulled the claw from her rucksack, and she couldn't help but smile.

'Oh, Mara's Mercy, you actually _did_ it! You got our claw back,' he crowed, rounding the counter to meet her.

'Those bandits won't be bothering you again,' she promised.

'I just can't believe it,' he laughed, eagerly taking the claw from her and running his hands over it reverently. 'I'm going to put this back where it belongs.'

The golden claw got place of pride on the Trader's wooden counter, and he stood there satisfied, hands on hips, just staring for several moments. Then he turned to her, smiling, and shook his head.

'Oh, Camilla will be so happy to see our claw returned. Just _wait_ until that girl gets home. Now,' he held up a finger. 'About your reward. Hang on just a second!'

He went running upstairs, and returned a minute later, holding a bag of septims.

'I'm a man of my word,' he said matter-of-factly. And then placed the entire bag of coin in her hand.

Merrin stifled a sigh of relief, and her face split into a grin; with money like this, she could afford food, lodging, _and_ repairs, and could figure out what she should do next. Combined with her reward from the Jarl and whatever she could get for the gems and scrolls, it would probably be enough to ride the ferry back to Morrowind.

'Thank you, friend,' Lucan said heartily. 'Thank you so much. It's good to know there are still reliable people kicking around in this province.'


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I just want to take a moment to thank all of the people who have checked out my story so far, and especially those who have followed the updates. It means a lot to me! As always, I am open to all remarks and criticism. Feel free to talk to me!**

 **I also want to make use of this note to let readers know that from now on, I'm going to be aiming for more of a weekly update.**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

She'd decided not to stay the night in Riverwood, and by the time she'd made it back to Whiterun, night had well and truly fallen. The businesses had all closed for the day, the dinner hour was past, and people were settling into their homes to enjoy the rest of their evening.

She hadn't figured that the Jarl would appreciate an interruption this late in the day—and after the time she'd had in the Barrow, _she_ wasn't much in the mood to see _him,_ either, let alone his insufferable wizard. So instead of passing through the Wind District and making her way to Dragonsreach, she'd made for the Bannered Mare.

Hulda had looked surprised to see her, but had welcomed her inside all the same, beckoning her towards the bar; Merrin had taken one of the stools there, tucking her rucksack between her legs, and had ordered a bowl of beef stew and an ale. The tavern had been far from empty, with a group of rowdy people huddled on the benches around the fire, all drinking and singing badly off-key. But she'd been the only person sitting at the bar, and she'd been able to eat her dinner in relative peace.

She'd paid for the same room she'd taken the night before, and Hulda had pursed the money and smiled at her. 'You know your way upstairs, I trust. You have yourself a good night.'

As soon as she'd locked the door behind her, she'd stripped her armor off as quickly as she could manage, tossing her detested boots into a far corner of the room, and had stuffed her knapsack holding the Jarl's Dragonstone and all of her recently acquired valuables under the bed and out of sight. Then she'd snuffed all the candles and thrown back the red quilt, falling exhausted into the bed with all of her clothing still on.

She'd slept for a long time, well into the morning, and had woken to the sounds of a lively drumming song and people talking and laughing downstairs.

At some point during the night, she'd wiggled her way out of her clothes, and she'd needed to redress herself before she could retrieve her knapsack and don her armor. She'd groaned and cursed as she'd put everything on; after all the fighting at Bleakfalls, every muscle she had felt tight, and most of her body felt sore and bruised. She should've healed herself some more before she'd gone to sleep.

The serving girl had approached her when she'd headed downstairs, and she could see that the breakfast crowd was still going strong. But she'd smiled politely and waved her off, slipping through the painted wooden doors and out into the sunshine.

And now she was climbing the long staircases up to Dragonsreach and doing her best to ignore her weeping muscles, to present the Jarl with the Dragonstone.

When she came into Balgruuf's sweeping throne room, she found him sitting at the head of one of the banquet tables, engaged in conversation and eating a late breakfast. He was talking to a burly blonde that looked to be some kind of relative, and further down the table sat three children of varying ages, two of them looking sullen as they picked at their food.

After a moment, Balgruuf noticed her, and he pushed back from the table to stand as he greeted her. He was wearing fur-trimmed robes that denoted his stature in a dark blue that brought out his eyes, and he looked pleased to see her this time.

'Hail, good woman! You return from your journey to Riverwood. Tell me, were you successful in your task?'

'I was.' She bowed her head as she approached the table, and ignored the curious stare of his relative and the bored speculation of the children as she swung her knapsack off of her shoulder. 'I have the Dragonstone for you right here.'

'Excellent, excellent!' His eyes lit up and his face broke into a smile as he rubbed his palms together excitedly. 'Let me have a look at it.'

She withdrew the Dragonstone obediently from her pack and placed it into his waiting hands, while Irileth glared suspiciously from where she stood nearby. He unwrapped the linen eagerly, but when his eyes finally fell on the old stone tablet, his brows furrowed, and he looked confused.

'This...is what Farengar sent you to bring?'

'Yes. That is the Dragonstone of Bleakfalls Barrow.'

He squinted his eyes at the grey block of stone, and then after a moment he looked up at her. 'I'm happy to see the job finally done. And you will be rewarded, as promised. But I confess, when Farengar announced that he needed the stone for his studies, I figured it would be more...legible.'

She wasn't sure what his response would be if she actually agreed with him, so she just nodded and kept her tone neutral.

'Hopefully your wizard can make sense of it. Maybe it will still be of use to him.'

'That's my hope as well. But I've kept you waiting long enough.' He tossed the linen carelessly back over the stone tablet and handed it to her. 'You should bring the Dragonstone to Farengar now, and see what he makes of it. Come to me for your payment when you've finished.'

With that he sat down again and returned his attention to the blonde man seated beside him, resuming their conversation as he reached for a pastry. The children went back to looking dissatisfied, and playing with their food.

She had reached the threshold of Farengar's study when she realized that somebody else was with him. A woman in full leather armor stood beside him, her face shrouded by a dark hood, and they were discussing something animatedly. They were bent over an open book on the desk, and were so involved in their discussion that they didn't notice her standing there. Merrin hung back, not wanting to intrude.

'You see? The terminology is clearly First Era, maybe even earlier.' Farengar was speaking, and he sounded genuinely excited—nothing like the pompous, disdainful man she'd met.

'I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text, perhaps dating back just after the Dragon War. If it does, I could use it to cross-reference the names with other, later texts.'

'Good.' The woman beside him sounded brusque, and not nearly as excited at whatever they were studying. 'I'm glad to see you're making progress. My employers are getting.. _anxious_ , to have some real answers.'

Farengar waved a hand at her words, clearly unconcerned. 'Have no fear. Balgruuf himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm able to devote most of my time to this research, now. It's coming along.'

The hooded woman's response came out sharper than before. 'Time is of the essence, Farengar. You'd be wise not to forget it. This isn't one of your hypotheses. Dragons have come back.'

A floorboard creaked as Merrin shifted her weight, and the hooded woman's head snapped up at the tiny sound. She stared right at Merrin, and her eyes were glinting out of the shadows shrouding her face as she took her in—assessed her.

'Farengar, you have a visitor.'

Farengar tore his eyes away from the book, clearly still deep in thought, and it took him a moment of staring at her before recognition lit his features. 'Ah, yes. The Jarl's protege.'

His voice was tinged with sarcasm, and she felt a wash of anger rise up to mingle with the prickle of embarrassment she felt at being caught standing there.

'You're back from Bleakfalls Barrow already?' he continued. 'It looks like you didn't die, after all.'

She squared her shoulders and stood straight and tall, ignoring the pain that the motion caused her.

'No, I didn't die. The job was easy, as you said it would be.'

She'd be damned if he'd know what a difficult time she'd had getting the tablet from the Barrow, and she stared him down as she lied, showing no signs of weakness. Before he could reply, she walked right up to his desk, and placed the Dragonstone down in its linen with a heavy _thunk_.

When he uncovered the tablet and picked it up, his eyes went wide, and his hands were shaking.

'The Dragonstone of Bleakfalls Barrow. I can't believe you actually...' his long tapered fingers gently caressed the tablet's surface, and when he looked at her again, he had the decency to look humbled.

'It seems you're a cut above the brainless layabouts the Jarl usually sends my way. My associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. _She_ was the one who discovered the location of the tablet...although, so far, I can't get her to divulge _how_ she did it.' His voice was plaintive and long suffering, but neither woman responded in any way, and he cleared his throat awkwardly in the following silence. Then he tossed aside the linen wrappings and placed the Dragonstone down on the desk for the hooded woman to see—but the woman hadn't taken her eyes off of Merrin.

'You went into Bleakfalls Barrow and got this?'

There was urgency in the woman's tone, like it was critically important that the point be clarified. Merrin only nodded, staring at her warily. Was this another person who would underestimate her?

But it quickly became obvious that the woman wasn't interested in estimating her at all; she nodded slightly at the confirmation, and then straightened up from the desk to look at Farengar.

'You've got work to do, and I'll leave you to it. Just send me a copy when you have it deciphered. And remember—time is everything.'

Farengar assured her that he'd get started straight away, and then she swept out of the study without another word.

* * *

Merrin's spirits were considerably higher than they'd been yesterday as she walked through the Wind District and towards the market—she hadn't even felt the usual twinge of annoyance at the wailing sermon of the priest of Talos as she'd walked down the steps of Dragonsreach, informing her she was 'naught but a maggot, writhing in the filth of her own corruption'.

After the hooded stranger had walked out, she'd been left alone in the study with Farengar, who had stiffly thanked her for a job well done, and suggested she see the Jarl about her reward. But instead of leaving right away, she'd looked at him again and opened her knapsack.

She'd told the court wizard that she'd found some items on her trip that he might be interested in, and that she was looking to sell, and had suggested that he look them over.

She wasn't sure why he'd been so agreeable; maybe the scrolls and enchanted dagger really _did_ interest him. Or maybe he was worried about having another talk with the Jarl, if he tried to dismiss her again. Whatever his reasons might have been, he'd given her an exceptionally good deal on several of the items, and she'd walked away from his study with a considerably heavier purse than when she'd entered.

Combined with the gold she'd been given by the Jarl on her way out of Dragonsreach, she'd earned enough money to really expand her options.

She was no longer financially stuck in Whiterun. She had enough gold to hire a carriage to Windhelm, and to board the Northern Maiden for passage to Morrowind.

As she walked, her satisfied thoughts were interrupted by the growling of her stomach, and the sudden loud sound made her laugh; she'd skipped breakfast, and that combined with the flush of success had given her an appetite. So when she made it to the Plains District, she headed back into the Bannered Mare and took a seat at one of the wooden tables near the back. When the Redguard woman came over to her, she ordered a cheese and leek pie, and a tankard of the home-brewed mead to go with it.

The food came fast and it tasted delicious, and as she ate she settled happily into making travel plans.

She hadn't been at it for very long when she heard the front door bang open, and the sounds of loud laughter reached her at the back of the inn. Three new patrons came walking towards her, talking and joking amongst themselves, and they sat at one of the benches by the fire pit.

Merrin looked up from her mead to watch them sit down, and she was surprised to realize that she recognized one of them. It was the Imperial woman with the long dark hair—one of the three Companions who'd fought the giant. It was a sudden shock to see her again, and Merrin found herself watching the three strangers closely as Hulda handed them tankards of mead.

The Imperial woman was flanked by a man on either side; a Dunmer in hide with a ponytail on one side, and a blonde Nord with a scraggly beard on the other. The three of them all seemed dusty and tired, like they'd been working hard for a long time, and they drank deeply from their tankards in the pause between sentences. But they were clearly all in very high spirits—laughing, clapping one another on the back. She surprised herself when she brought her own tankard to her lips, and started listening in to their conversation.

'I don't know, Tor.' The woman laughed. 'Maybe you _should_ start taking lessons from Athis. If you'd been moving just a _little_ slower, that second troll would've probably been picking his teeth with your bones by now!'

'Listen to the lady, Torvar. Clearly, she's of superior intellect.'

'Oh, shut it, the both of ya.' The blonde Nord signaled Hulda for another tankard of mead, and gave his friends an easy grin. 'That troll never even knew what hit it—couldn't stand the sight of all this Nordic glory.'

'Oh, to be sure,' the woman agreed innocently. 'That must've been it. It had nothing to do with my sword in its back. Your _glory_ was just too much for it.'

The Dunmer burst into laughter again, and the woman grinned at the Nord as he cast her a sour look.

'Cheer up, Tor,' she said to him as Hulda handed him his fresh tankard of mead. 'We're all getting paid when we get back home. Those trolls won't be bothering any more travelers. And you're a boaster for sure, but at least you're still not as bad as Vilkas.'

The Nord man snorted as he raised his tankard, and the sour look vanished as he grinned again. 'You're right about that. _Nobody_ boasts like Vilkas.' Then he made his voice gruffer and significantly more accented, and his next words were obviously an imitation.

'I think by now, I've killed at _least_ one of every creature in Skyrim.'

'Maybe even Tamriel!' The Dunmer had joined in the fun, his imitation considerably poorer, and all three of them lapsed into giggles.

Watching the three of them talk and laugh, Merrin felt a strange tightness gathering in her chest. For several moments she didn't know what it was, and then it suddenly hit her: _loneliness_.

It had been a long time since she'd experienced anything like the camaraderie in front of her; she'd left her dearest friends behind at the same time she'd left Skyrim, and it had been years since she'd seen them. She'd made new friends in her travels, of course—it was hard not to, in her line of work, and some of those friendships were ones she'd cherish forever. But when it came to her _actual_ job...well...she did it alone. Watching the three Companions now made her wonder what it would be like to make a living amongst actual friends.

Clients weren't the same thing at all. She thought of Dalan Dufont with angry disgust—and then a sudden stab of cold fear punctured the empty feeling in her chest. With an unsteady hand, she set down her mug. Dread started to seep into her like a tendril of poisonous fog.

It was actually the first time she'd thought of the Breton since they'd both been arrested by Darkwater Crossing, and she was hit with the sudden realization that she didn't know what'd happened to him. She had no way of knowing if he'd died in Helgen; she'd overheard in the market this morning that Whiterun guards were still tallying up the casualties and sorting through the charred rubble.

She far from wished him dead, even though he _was_ a worm. But what would it mean for her, if he wasn't? What if he'd managed to make his way back to Windhelm? Talked his way onto the Northern Maiden? He'd threatened to ruin her when she'd broken their contract—to drag her name through the mud with everyone he knew.

If she went back to Morrowind now, what would be waiting for her there by the time she arrived?

The Dufonts were some of the most important, influential non-Dunmeri in all of Morrowind; they had estates all over the province, and money to see them all maintained. Samuel Dufont was at the family's head; the man came from old money, and even as an outlander, he'd been regarded favorably because of his family's long-standing support of the Empire. His wife Elina was a prominent noble from Wayrest, and their union had doubled Samuel's considerable wealth. Apparently they'd relocated to Blacklight in the year following their marriage, and Samuel had gone to work straight away; he was a smart man with a keen eye for investments, and he'd wasted no time investing in Morrowind. He'd poured his money into all of the fields that would capture the interest of the most important people. At first, the Houses had turned up their noses—they saw only an outlander, trying to buy respect. But one very important man took a shine to Dufont—Sidri Naalan Redoran, son of the head of House Redoran at the time.

Samuel and Sidri had forged a true friendship, and that friendship had opened inumerable doors to the Dufonts; in a short amount of time, the Breton man _was_ respected, and when Sidri's father died in 163 and he rose to be the head of House Redoran, he took Samuel on as a trusted advisor. In a handful of years, Dufont had power on the three most important fronts: politics, trade, and military interest.

Today in 201, the name Dufont was institutional in Morrowind; Samuel and Elina had their hands in every pie, every lucrative trade, from textiles and tailoring to fishing and agriculture, to metalworking and stock bonds. They owned farms, banks, ports, vineyards, markets, taverns...they poured charity into Morrowind's military muster, supported Dunmeri art and theatre, and made generous donations to hospices and shelters for the widowed and beleaguered every year. Sidri was still alive and well, and so was he and the Dufonts' friendship.

And their family had taken strong roots in Morrowind over the following decades; Elina had given her husband seven children, all of whom had survived to adulthood, and all of those children had married well. So far as Merrin had heard, they were the proud grandparents of nine, and counting. Their hold on the province was all but unshakeable, and there was no end to their lineage in sight.

And by some malicious Daedra's doing, _she_ was the sorry soul who had angered Dalan, Samuel and Elina's youngest child.

The family's social importance had nearly put her off, point blank—the only reason she'd ever agreed to take a Dufont to Skyrim was because the family had such a clean reputation. She had no way of knowing if Samuel's exports had expanded over his years of prosperity to include the underground markets, or if Dalan had simply used his wealth and status to start a new limb of the family business all his own.

In the end, it didn't really matter; there was one thing she was absolutely sure of. If Dalan wasn't dead, then in all likelihood, he was doing his best to ruin her.

Several minutes passed in the Bannered Mare as this belated realization fully sank in for her; she gripped the table with white-knuckled hands, and hunched over her plate as her stomach did somersaults, threatening to toss the pie she'd ordered.

It was the sound of the Companions clambering to their feet and making their way towards the tavern's front door that brought her back to the present moment. She lifted her head to watch them leave as they waved goodbye to Hulda, and the Imperial woman threw her arm around the Dunmer's shoulders as they walked through the door. As she watched them take off she felt another pang of loneliness, even more acute than the first.

She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands.

 _What in Oblivion am I going to do?_

Until now, Merrin hadn't considered any option _other_ than returning to Morrowind and picking right up where she'd left off, and she considered that to be only natural—she'd been working hard at establishing herself for the last four years of her life. She'd worked back-breaking hours taking dangerous jobs, sometimes working for free to garner favors. She'd painstakingly built a foundation of clients who trusted her to do their jobs right, and a contact list of other mercenaries willing to give her a hand or somewhere to stay when she was in town. She'd forged lasting friendships in several provinces, some of which she expected to be life-long. She had struggled and clawed her way to a respected name, an honest income, and while it had been far from perfect, it had been hers.

She'd had no intention of losing what she'd built for herself. But if Dalan had made it back into Morrowind, she could already be in the process of losing it. Depending on his condition when he got there, it might be dangerous for her to even show her face.

Anger and despair speared through her in equal measure. She'd always been a confrontational person, and she had half a mind to go blazing back to Morrowind anyway, to try and defend her name. But enough common sense rattled around in her head for her to know that it likely wouldn't do any good. She'd crossed an important family by tangling with Dalan Dufont; they had resources and connections she couldn't hope to match.

She wouldn't need any kind of income at all if she died with a Morag Tong's dagger in her back.

She knew it. But the idea of just _giving up_ on the life she'd built rankled like rot in the pit of her stomach.

Merrin turned these thoughts over in her mind for long minutes, trying hard to be constructive in her anger. Suddenly, a new thought occurred to her.

Being in Helgen when that dragon attacked presented her with a unique opportunity. Because if she had no way of knowing if Dalan had survived...then _Dalan_ had no way of knowing that _she'd_ survived, either.

If he never found out one way or the other, or just assumed that the dragon had killed her...then what she had could be a new lease on life.

She was hit then by a flashing image of Ralof, the words he'd yelled at her as he'd dragged her from the executioner's block.

' _Come on, Merrin! The gods won't give us another chance!'_

And yet, they really had; in the form of a murderous fire-breathing lizard, Merrin had been given a chance to start a new chapter of her life, out of the possible ruin of the one she was standing in. The part of her that was stubbornly superstitious tingled as she thought about it—at the very moment she was to be executed, the first dragon seen in a thousand years had swooped down on the one _tiny_ village she'd happened to be in, and had saved her from a certain death. And the very next day...she'd received a _very_ unexpected offer to do something new with her life. Something she'd dreamed about as a little girl.

She thought again about the three friends she'd just seen talking and laughing, and there was definitely yearning in her chest as she considered Aela's offer again.

But she felt like she was in a hopeless situation: it was a hell of a decision that'd been dropped in her lap, and she didn't have the slightest interest in actually making it.

And so, she wrestled with it instead. For the rest of the day she sat at that table, ignoring all of the other patrons, occasionally ordering herself another mead. As she sat there staring into her cups, she mentally sparred with herself, twisting one way and then the other.

At first, there was only scorn; she berated herself, wondering how she could even think of dropping the career she'd painstakingly built. Several times, she worked herself up nearly to the point where she'd have shoved away from the table and ran through the city gates, throwing herself into the carriage waiting by the stables, telling the driver to take her to Windhelm.

But every time, she pulled herself back.

She paid to stay another night at the Mare, and Hulda looked at her with some concern in her eyes as she took her gold and wished her a good night. Merrin barely heard her as she trudged up the stairs, and she didn't bother undressing or even turning the quilt down before she dropped face-down onto the bed.

With the help of the mead she found herself pulled into an only semi-fitful sleep, and while she slept, she dreamed.

At first, the dream was dangerous; she was fighting for her life against another dragon. This dragon wasn't black like the one at Helgen—it was a deep royal blue, and instead of eyes, its sockets held carvings of the Dufont family crest. The dragon laughed as its fire came a hairs breadth away from searing her, and although a large crowd of people stood watching at her back, not a single one stepped forward to help her.

Merrin could feel herself slowing down—soon she'd be too tired to keep dodging the dragon's fire.

Suddenly, the dream changed. From the crowd behind her she could hear shouting, and then the sounds of booted feet were rushing up to meet her. In another moment, she was flanked by three people; she recognized them easily as the Companions she'd seen drinking in the tavern. They smiled grimly at her as they raised their weapons, and turned to face the dragon head on.

'Hold your ground, Shield-Sister!' Aela had materialized out of nowhere beside them, and her voice was loud and fearless as she loosed an arrow from her bow that sank deep into the dragon's chest; it shrieked in pain and reared up as they watched it, and instead of blood, golden Septims started spilling from the wound. With a mighty cry, the three other warriors jumped into the fray, descending on the dragon. And then everything dissolved.

For a moment, she floated in a pearly nothingness. She was still flushed from the heat of the dragon's fire, but now she felt warm on the inside, too; just as she'd thought she was doomed, friends had rushed forward to fight at her side.

And then she was standing alone on the plain outside of Whiterun; green grass blew on a sultry wind, and small white clouds skidded across a magnificent blue sky. As she stared up at that sky, two eyes suddenly emerged from it, each one bigger than Masser, dominating the entire vista. They were lovely, almost the same blue as the sky they hung in, and ringed with smudged black circles. They stared directly at her, seemingly into her. As she stared back, transfixed, a deep voice came to her on the wind, shaking the ground beneath her feet, making her tremble as she listened. She'd heard the voice, once before—the same time that she'd seen the eyes.

' _Don't be discouraged. Anything can be intimidating, before you know what it looks like.'_

* * *

When Merrin woke up the next morning, her scorn had melted into a sort of uncertain despair.

She still hated the idea of giving up on her mercenary work—letting go of what she'd built. But her initial rage had dampened some, and in the morning light she had to admit that there was no point in running to Morrowind. If Dalan had survived Helgen, then whatever was going to happen had already been set into motion, and she wasn't going to be able to stop it. She could only ride it out and see.

And something about her attitude had changed while she'd slept. She could probably blame that on the dream. Suddenly, she wasn't nearly so dismissive about the idea of being asked to join the Companions; if she tried just a little, she could still remember what it had felt like to have them standing all around her. Remembering it made her feel...warm.

But she was a long way from decided, and her mood was still foul as she came downstairs and snagged the same table she'd had last night. Not even a boiled cream treat for breakfast could do much to cheer her up.

As soon as she'd even really considered the _possibility_ of going to Jorrvaskr, she'd been hit with an uncharacteristic boatload of nerves. She was a confident woman—so why did she feel so unsure of herself?

Sitting there picking at the huge caramel, she could only think of two potential reasons.

Being a Companion was a childhood dream that she'd set aside for other things—and if there was one thing she'd come to realize in adulthood, it was that little girl's fantasies rarely ever lived up to a grown woman's reality. Especially in Skyrim.

The other reason was that, for Merrin, memories of the Companions were directly tied to memories of her father.

Not a day went by that she didn't miss him...but usually she tried not to think about it. Today though, as she sat at the scarred wooden table, she let herself conjure him up clearly.

It was her father who had first started telling her stories about the Companions of Jorrvaskr, either from the pages of a book or his own memory. In no time at all, she'd been hooked; she would plead with him to stay up just a little later at night when he'd put her to bed, so he could tell her 'just one more story'. On the rare occasion that he'd forge a battleaxe, it wouldn't have even cooled all the way before she'd announce in her small high voice that its battle-name was to be Wuuthrad. And he'd always laughed, and humored her.

Their admiration of the Companions had been one of many things they had in common, and often as a girl she'd wondered about whether he'd ever wanted to join them; she'd worked up the courage to ask him when she was significantly older, and he'd given her a crinkly-eyed smile and confirmed it.

' _I don't regret my lot for a minute. You know that. But...if I hadn't ended up with you and your ma, I think I would've put down my hammer, and raised an axe with the Companions in Whiterun instead.'_

More than anything, she wished her father could see her now. She was wracked with indecision; would he approve, if he knew that she was considering joining the group he'd nearly joined himself? Or would he have wanted some different kind of life for her?

She snorted at herself the second she'd finished the thought—she already had her answer. Her father had been a soft-hearted man, and a protective one to top it. If he were still alive, he wouldn't want to see her running around, swinging a blade and chasing honor. He'd want to see her settled down, married to a good man. Happy, and provided for.

She was yanked from her brooding reverie by an irritated voice nearby.

'Hey, stranger. Are you just about finished your moping? It was getting old by last night.'

Startled, Merrin looked to her left, thoughts of her father dissipating. A tough-looking Nord woman in steel armor with her hair tightly plaited was sitting in an armchair and scowling at her. Before she could answer, the woman spoke again.

'Yeah, I'm talking to you. The long face is damned annoying.'

Quick as always, anger flickered to life in Merrin's gut, and she glared at the woman as she took her in. 'Excuse me? Who the hell are you?'

'The name is Uthgerd. Who are _you_? And what's your gods-damn problem? I come here for the atmosphere, and you've been murking it up since you got here.'

Merrin hissed out an exhale. 'My name and my problems are none of your business.'

The woman named Uthgerd put her drink down, and her eyes were smouldering when she shrugged.

'If you say so—it doesn't really matter. I think you should leave. Go and take your black cloud somewhere else.'

'That's nice for you, but I'm not going anywhere.' She'd dropped her breakfast, and she could feel her hands balling into fists.

Uthgerd leaned forward in her seat, and now she wore a dangerous smile. 'I could _make_ you leave, if you don't see fit to move yourself.'

Merrin leaned forward too at those words, and she had to work to keep her voice even. 'That's big talk, from a total stranger.'

The other woman snorted. 'Please. If I met you on a real battlefield, you'd be dead in six seconds or less. That's not big talk. That's truth.'

Merrin's eyes narrowed to slits. It was the _wrong_ morning for someone to test her patience. 'You really think that you could take me?'

'I could take any milk-drinker in this entire city. _Bare-handed_.' Suddenly her smile widened into a sort of feral grin. 'You want to test the theory? One hundred gold says I can knock your lousy hide to the ground.'

It wouldn't be her first brawl. It wouldn't be her last. She shoved up from her seat at the table, palms still pressed flat to the old wood as Merrin met the woman's challenging stare.

'You're on.'

The embers that she'd seen in Uthgerd eyes came blazing into full flame. 'Alright then. Just fists. No weapons, no magic...no crying. Let's go!'

Uthgerd had ripped off her steel gauntlets, and they'd gotten started. They began by circling each other slowly, each sizing the other one up. Hulda had been the first to notice, and the older Nord woman had only sighed; a girl with long white hair clutching a broom looked like she wanted to intervene, but the Redguard serving girl reined her in.

Merrin was the first to land a jab. Her knuckles connected painfully with Uthgerd's jaw bone, and the big woman's head went snapping back. But when she quickly refocused she only looked invigorated, baring her teeth in an expression that was downright feral, and she'd returned with a swinging haymaker Merrin had been forced to catch on the shoulder.

After that, a crowd of spectators had quickly formed, cheering one or the other on. When the table got flipped and Uthgerd's drinks spilled everywhere, they only cheered more enthusiastically.

'My money's on the big one!'

'Show her what we're made of, here in Whiterun!'

It went on for a while, but eventually, most of the crowd grew quiet. The fight went on longer than anyone was expecting—probably because both women refused to lose—and people had started to titter uneasily as they'd kept on determinedly trading blows.

In the end, anger gave Merrin the upper hand; it fuelled her hits to be harder, faster, and it helped her ignore her many screaming injuries. Uthgerd had forgotten to block her face in the heat of the moment, and Merrin took advantage of the distraction. She felt at least one knuckle break as she landed a last punch to Uthgerd's jaw. But it was worth the effort, and the pain—the older woman fell to her knees, reaching out to grab the toppled table as she fell, and roared in frustration as she slumped against the wood, whistling strangely as she breathed hard through her mouth.

Merrin wanted to scream her own triumph, but she held it back with a lot of effort. Instead she wiped the blood out of her right eye from where it trickled out of her busted brow, and gave Uthgerd a wild grin with teeth stained red.

'I think I've earned that hundred gold.'

Uthgerd looked up at her, and Merrin was surprised to see that her anger seemed to have evaporated; despite an eye swelling shut and an obviously broken nose, she was smiling right back at her.

'I think you're right. I was wrong about you. Best fight I've had in years.' The woman grabbed hold of a table leg and heaved herself painfully to her feet, ignoring a glare from Hulda when said table leg gave an ominous crunch. The white-haired woman reached out to help her, but Uthgerd waved her impatiently away.

'Here.' She slipped her coinpurse from her belt and made to count out Merrin's coins, but this time Merrin shook her head.

'Not yet.' She pointed to her mangled face, using the hand with the broken knuckles. 'It's not worth standing around like this. Hang on.'

She didn't want to piss off a room full of Nords by using her restoration magic. Instead, she went to her bag where it sat beside her forgotten breakfast, and pulled out a huge bottle of strong healing potion that she'd bought from Lucan in Riverwood. She yanked the cork out with her teeth, and then tipped her head back to taste the contents. Her nose and jaw were both brutalized, and at first she could barely force herself to swallow. But the potion was sugary and refreshing, and in a couple of seconds she started feeling its effects.

She drank deeply, not pausing to breathe, relaxing as she felt her scrapes knit shut, her swelling go down, and the bones of her knuckles click back into place. In the end, a little more than half the potion was more than enough.

She took a deep breath and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and then stared at Uthgerd as she offered her the remaining potion.

Uthgerd—not to mention several other people—looked exceedingly surprised at the gesture. But after a second she reached out a hand, and gingerly accepted the bottle. She too started downing the contents, and it was Merrin's turn to watch as someone else healed; her nose made a funny popping sound as it clicked back into joint.

The woman drained the rest of the potion, and then awkwardly righted the table she'd been sitting at so she could set the empty bottle on its top. Then she opened her coinpurse and poured most of its contents onto the table too, staring at Merrin before she nodded.

'You can take a good hit, and you're honorable to boot—it would seem that you're a real warrior. I'm sorry that I harassed you before. Sometimes I can be too hotheaded.' The woman's cheeks colored before she continued. 'If you ever need another blade at your side during your travels, let me know. I'd love to see how you handle a few trolls.'

'I'll keep it in mind,' Merrin answered faintly. Her mind was still caught on what she'd heard several sentences ago.

Uthgerd had called her a real warrior. And now her pulse was racing all over again—her stomach felt like it was full of Aldmeri champagne.

She'd been a sell-sword for four long years, and not once had anyone made that mistake. Not once had anyone applied the arguably much more glamorous title.

Hearing it applied to her now for the first time, it brought those childhood dreams unfurling like a flower to the front of her mind, and as she stood there she felt all of the previous days' doubt crumbling to dust under a burgeoning wave of yearning and resolve. Her decision was being made right in front of her.

'I need to go.' She turned from the woman and broke through the loose crowd of dedicated spectators who had stayed this long, sliding her pack from the table and shouldering it, leaving her breakfast untouched. 'Thanks so much.' She nearly forgot to claim the gold on the table, and Uthgerd and several others looked plainly confused as she threw her coinpurse into her bag and rounded towards the door.

'Any time. And your name was...?' Uthgerd called after her, but Merrin didn't stop to respond, and the doors to the tavern slapped shut behind her as she took off purposefully up the stairs to the Wind District.

She didn't stop to talk to anybody, afraid that if she did, this new found resolve would crack and crumble; she didn't even slow down until she'd reached her destination.

Jorrvaskr sat proudly in front of her now—the ancient mead hall of story and legend. It was a marvel of construction, with gracefully carved wooden beams, colorful stained glass windows, and a roof that looked like someone had simply topped the building with an upturned longboat. The rudders arched up proudly through the air, and were carved in the ancient Nordic style to depict dragons Shouting to the sky.

She'd purposefully avoided even looking at it in her journeys to Dragonsreach, and as she walked up an old stone staircase and under a sweeping arch, its beauty hit her for the first time.

As she placed a hand on one of the sturdy wooden doors, she suddenly saw that she was trembling, and she felt a stab of the earlier doubt and worry. But it was too late to turn back now; she'd had enough of indecision. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and pushed her way through the heavy door.

Merrin didn't know what she'd find inside. But _whatever_ she found, she could rest secure in the knowledge that she'd chosen it.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter has been a long time coming, I know! I'd like to thank my readers for being patient, as well as for all of the positive feedback and love! It is greatly appreciated. The next chapter WILL be delivered on schedule.**

 **This chapter and the next were intended to be just ONE chapter, but it ended up being so huge that I had to split it into two. I hope you all enjoy! As always, feel free to let me know what you think.**

The _first_ thing that Merrin found on the other side of the heavy wooden doors seemed to be a fist-fight.

As the carved oak closed behind her with a thud, she saw several people leaving their seats at a long wooden table shaped like a horse-shoe in the center of the room; they were rushing to stand and watch a scuffle happening far across the hall. As she stood there uncertain about what she should do, she heard a sigh, and then a gruff voice calling out nearby from somewhere to her left.

'By the Nine, are those two at it _again_?'

Another male voice farther away chuckled, and responded. 'When are they ever not?'

Feeling almost as if she were trespassing and wondering if she should just come back later, Merrin walked on stiff legs down a set of burnished mahogany stairs. She skirted around the end of the long table that opened into a fire-pit providing heat and light for the room, and walked up an identical shallow staircase that led to the far side of the hall where people were gathering.

As she walked, she looked furtively around for somebody who looked like they might be in charge, and although she recognized a couple of faces—the Imperial woman who'd been at the Mare and her blond friend most likely named Torvar—she didn't see anybody who really seemed to be a leader. Then she cursed inwardly as she suddenly realized that Aela had given her no actual description of the Harbinger—she'd have to ask around for him. But now hardly seemed like the moment to try.

She had a good view of the fight, now; could hear it perfectly, too.

'Is that really all you've got? When did you turn into such a little bitch?!'

'Oho, just you _wait,_ you little _s'wit._ This time, I'm gonna— _oof!'_

She could recognize the man who'd just been talking. It was Athis, the Dunmer who'd come into the tavern with Torvar and the Imperial woman. His red hair was falling out of its ponytail and his war-paint was smudged—likely on account of being hit in the face. His words had been abruptly cut off by his opponent's fist driving into his gut.

Said opponent was a woman, surprisingly short for being a Nord, with the lightest platinum blonde hair Merrin had ever seen and warpaint the color of fresh blood slashing across her pale cheeks. She was already smiling triumphantly despite the fight having just gotten started, and when Athis staggered away from her, she tipped her head back and laughed.

'Oh, come on, Athis. At least _try_ to make this a bit of a challenge!'

'Ignore her, Athis!' The Imperial woman was standing just in front of Merrin, and she'd cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted to be heard over the cheers and jeers of the other warriors around them. 'Just focus!'

Athis shook himself then, and he seemed to take her advice seriously, because he threw himself back into the fight with renewed determination. They started trading blows back and forth, and Merrin couldn't help but wince; the Dunmer was of a typical lithe build, and barely even armored, and the woman pummeling him was an incredibly hard hitter. What he held over her in speed, she made up for with sheer brute strength. And she seemed fiercely determined; even the Dunmer's most punishing blows got little more out of her than a grunt or a curse while she shook off the pain.

Seconds passed like minutes for the onlookers, and Merrin was actually biting her lower lip when she felt a hand grab her by the shoulder and pull her aside. She whirled around, ready to throw her own punch if she needed to—but she immediately recognized the woman in front of her.

Aela stood there smiling at her, and there was obvious warmth in her jade green eyes as she looked Merrin over with approval.

'Aela! I didn't see you when I came in.' She lowered her hands back down to her sides and jerked her head back at the Nord and Dunmer, who were now rolling around on the flagstone floor. 'Why isn't anyone breaking this up?'

The red-head snorted. 'What, those two? This is an average Fredas for them. Also an average Loredas, Sundas, Morndas...' she started ticking the days off on long, slender fingers.

'Alright, alright, I get the picture.' She thought about the state of her own face twenty minutes ago, and winced. _Who would fist-fight for fun every day?_

Aela laughed at Merrin's expression, and then she crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin as she regarded her.

'So, you've come to us after all. I had a feeling you'd be showing up.'

Merrin was sure that the other woman caught the faint grimace that she tried to repress before she answered; that was a whole lot of confidence, over someone who hadn't at all been sure she was even showing up.

'I still can't really believe this is happening. And I don't know that your Harbinger will think I have what it takes. But I've decided that I want to try.'

Aela's smile turned into a grin as she nodded. 'That's the spirit. You should head downstairs and talk to Kodlak. See what he has to say.'

Her voice was loud and confident when she spoke, and it suited her; Merrin had known her for mere minutes, and already couldn't imagine her sounding any other way.

'Speaking of Kodlak, you never told me what he looks like. How will I know which man to talk to?'

'Turn right when you get downstairs, and just keep walking until you run out of room,' Aela replied. Her deep green eyes were intense as they stared. 'And as for Kodlak, you'll know him when you see him. They call him White-Mane—he tends to stand out.'

Nerves were sizzling back to life in her stomach, making Merrin angry with herself, and she didn't want this woman to see them. She averted her face from the red-headed warrior, looking instead in the direction she'd pointed to.

'Then I guess I won't waste any more time. I'll head downstairs and—'

Their conversation was abruptly drowned out by the sound of wild yelling behind them, and Merrin spun around again.

The platinum-haired Nord had picked Athis up and thrown him onto one of several wooden end-tables lining the wall. The table gave an ominous cracking sound as he crashed down onto it, and before the Dunmer could get his bearings, she delivered a punch to his gut so forceful that the table broke beneath him and he tumbled to the ground.

More than one onlooker groaned sympathetically as the Dunmer curled into a ball, clutching his stomach and making hacking noises. The Nord woman stepped forward, looming above him, and she quirked a pale brow as she raised her fist. Athis saw her and threw a hand out to stop her.

'Alright, alright Njada. That's enough!' He groaned, returning both hands to where her last hit had landed. 'I'm done.'

The woman he'd called Njada curled her lip up in a feral kind of snarl. 'Yeah you are, milk-drinker. Now pay me what you owe me.'

The blonde man named Torvar shoved past another spectator and bent down to offer Athis a hand, and the Dunmer took it, struggling painfully to his feet. Scowling, he yanked a bag of coin off of the nearest end table and tossed it at her chest. Then he leaned on Torvar as he hobbled away, muttering under his breath as he went. Njada had caught the bag of coin, and she smiled gloatingly as she weighed it in her palm, calling out to Athis' back.

'Let me know the next time you're feeling tough!'

It was then that Aela took Merrin by the arm and turned her around again, looking amused. 'You can go and talk to Kodlak. You're not missing anything up here.'

Merrin wasn't sure she agreed, but she nodded at her and turned to leave.

'Oh, wait. Before you go.' Aela was looking at her curiously again when she turned her head.

'I've forgotten to ask you before now. What is your name?' She cracked another wry smile. 'I can't just keep calling you stranger.'

'My name is Merrin.'

Aela cocked her head to one side, hair shifting like a flame around her shoulders. 'I like the sound of that. Well, Merrin...good luck.'

She only nodded in response before she turned away, and finally started walking across the long, airy room.

The underground portion of Jorrvaskr opened up onto a long hallway made almost entirely of cobbled stone, with a rounded ceiling about ten feet high. No windows existed to let daylight inside, so the way was lit by regular sconces, clusters of candles on wooden side-tables, and intermittent chandeliers whose braziers were made of hollowed-out goat horns. A long red rug with strands of gold woven through it ran the entire length of the hallway to warm up the stony facade, and banners of a similar shade were hanging in intervals down the right wall. The left wall was a different story; interrupted only by the odd doorway, it was covered almost entirely in shields, affixed to the wall in an interlocking phalanx. There were easily hundreds of them, in all different states of repair—an endless sea of detail.

Looking at them suddenly made a lump rise to lodge in Merrin's throat. She didn't need anybody to explain the shields' significance to her—she knew without being told.

There must have been a shield here for nearly every Companion who had ever lived in this mead hall. Every shield was a permanent mark...an enduring sign that a warrior had lived there.

She felt a strong urge to walk right up to the shields and start inspecting them more closely. But after wavering for several seconds, she held back; she'd come down here to speak to the Harbinger, and she needed to see it through. Taking Aela's earlier directions, she turned to the right and started walking down the corridor.

Everything was washed in flickering shadows and golden candle-light, and she found herself soaking in the hall's atmosphere as she walked. Despite being underground and made of stone, there was nothing unwelcoming about the space around her—it was obviously tended by loving hands, and actually felt homey, and she decided immediately that she liked it there. Cracked porcelain jugs full of tundra cotton and blue mountain flowers sat resting on every table she passed, and when she saw a plate of boiled creme treats sitting next to one of them, her stomach growled loudly, making her long for the breakfast she'd abandoned.

 _Focus! Focus!_

She'd passed a set of hallways branching off to her left and right and was coming up onto a set of closed wooden doors that were elaborately carved, with blue stained trim. She figured this had to be the right place, since she couldn't go any further.

As she walked up to the closed doors, she heard two male voices—one mellow and rich, the other rougher and heavily accented.

'I know you do, my boy. As do we all. It is our burden to bear...but we can overcome it.'

'You have my brother and I, obviously. But I'm not sure the others will go along with it.'

'You just leave that part to me.'

This was obviously a private conversation, and Merrin didn't want to intrude, so she lifted a hand and knocked resolutely at one of the wooden doors. The moment she made her presence known, both speakers fell silent. And then she heard the first voice that had spoken calling out to her.

'Enter.'

She pulled open the door, and walked into a kind of study; this was clearly an academic man's space. The left wall was dominated by a tall bookshelf crammed with heavy tomes, and a dark wooden desk with a map of Skyrim pinned to its surface. To her right was a display case, with an ebony sword resting on the velvet inside, and further down, another set of closed wooden doors.

The room was still cozy, with rugs scattered over the stone floor and another chandelier in the center of the ceiling, bathing the room in warm light. More red banners hung fluttering on the walls, but she realized with a start that these were different; instead of just a simple design, each one depicted Wuuthrad, embroidered in shiny golden thread. The mighty axe of Ysgramor was unmistakable, even just on a tapestry, and somehow seeing it there made the entire situation feel more real to her.

She looked dead ahead last, at the men in the room. There were two of them, both Nords, sitting at yet another table, with a dish of pie and goblets of wine perched on the wood between them. Her gaze was drawn first to the man on the left, and looking at him made her start with surprise.

He looked uncannily like the enormous man she'd met in the field outside of Whiterun; she could tell right away that it wasn't him, but they were so similar, he must have been a relation. Still, there were several differences.

The arms that were crossed over his chest were less burly—in fact, he seemed to be leaner in general, and maybe shorter, too. He had the same dark brown hair, but it was chopped at his jaw, not at his shoulders, and it was piecier somehow, as if he'd cut it himself. His face was _very_ similar, but leaner, with a longer chin. The most striking difference was in the eyes; they were ringed in the same sooty kohl and were almost the exact same shade of silvery blue, but that was where the similarities ended. There was no warmth in these eyes as they regarded her; where the man she'd met had seemed friendly and welcoming, this man's stare seemed to push her away, and he looked on her with an open suspicion that instantly put her on the defensive.

Looking at him made her suddenly realize that she hadn't seen his lookalike anywhere, either in the mead hall _or_ the living quarters, and the realization filled her gut with unexpected disappointment. Trying to keep her mouth from twisting, she turned her gaze away from him and looked at the other man in the room.

Instantly, she knew that _this_ was who she'd come to speak to—this man could only be Kodlak White-Mane, Harbinger of Jorrvaskr. He was a large man, who radiated a sort of elegant composure, and just as Aela had promised, he stood out; he had a thick head of unruly white hair that gleamed in the candlelight, and an impressive beard to match, with both of them sporting several small braids. Under the beard was a handsome face with chiseled cheeks, tanned by the sun and lined with age. The right side of his face sported a swirling Nordic tattoo that covered his cheek and trailed down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his armor.

His eyes were a stormy grey that suited his looks—but the second she looked into them, she realized that something strange was happening.

He was staring at her like she was a ghost, in absolute astonishment, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Merrin couldn't think of any reason why he would stare like that, and her brows furrowed as she opened her mouth, to ask the man if he was alright. But he spoke before she had the chance.

'You've come.'

The words were a wondering whisper, full of awe. He stared at her that way for a split second longer, but before she could react in any way, the strange moment passed; he smoothly schooled his rugged features, and the light of amazement left his eyes. His companion had turned to look at him sharply, but the older man ignored him, and his gaze turned keen as he assessed her.

'A stranger comes to the mighty hall of Jorrvaskr. Tell me, girl. What brings you to the home of the Companions?'

Her stomach was doing uneasy flips as she held his silvery gaze. Why did he seem to recognize her? Had he been expecting her, somehow? In the wake of that bizarre moment, she wasn't sure what to say; when she finally unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth, her voice came out sounding uncertain and it made her want to kick herself.

'I...are you Kodlak White-Mane?'

'Aye, that's me.' He was looking at her expectantly now. 'What can I do for you?'

Merrin steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and standing up straighter, determined not to sound as nervous as she felt. She spoke again, and was pleased this time when her voice came out strong.

'Aela directed me to you. I wish to become a Companion.'

'You do, do you? Hmm.' His entire demeanor shifted then; his stormy grey eyes took on a hint of a sparkle, and he lifted his chin as he leaned forward in his chair. 'And what name do you go by?'

She cleared her throat, and introduced herself for the second time in five minutes. 'Merrin Hakonsdotter, sir.' She knew he hadn't asked for a surname, but she felt compelled to give it anyway.

The Harbinger nodded intently at her words, and then rested his chin on his steepled fingers as he eyed her. 'Come a little closer, and let me have a look at you.'

Merrin hurried to do as he asked, stepping forward until she was only a stride's distance from him. As she walked, she could feel the other man's gaze on her as well, but she kept her eyes on Kodlak.

As she came to a stop in front of him, she felt suddenly self-conscious; too aware of the wild tangles in the hair hanging loose around her face, and of the shabby condition of her scavenged armor.

She couldn't identify the reason why, but something about the older man staring at her both intimidated her _and_ made her want his approval, all at the same time. There was something wise and knowing in those hooded silvery eyes, and despite the fact that she was in her thirtieth year, a part of her felt like a little girl again as she submitted herself to his scrutiny.

Such a thing would normally just get under her skin and make her angry—but the anger was strangely absent now. Something about the smile spreading over his face kept her spine from stiffening.

He looked her over for another moment, and then made a low humming sound as he cleared his throat. His eyes returned to hers before he spoke again.

'Yes...perhaps. I can see that you possess a certain strength of spirit. We've always valued that, here.'

Merrin opened her mouth to respond, but the other man in the room cut in and beat her to it.

'Master.' He sounded incredulous, disbelieving. 'You're not truly considering accepting _her_ , are you?'

The irritation that had been curiously absent went rushing through her with a vengeance then, and she scowled as she turned her head to look at the stranger who clearly had a problem with her. When her eyes landed on his face, she saw that he wore an expression not unlike her own, and the two glared silently at each other, sizing one another up.

As far as she could tell, he didn't look like he could be much older than she was, but she knew that didn't mean very much. He was no pushover, that much was obvious; his build attested to long hours fighting, and the fact that he was sitting there spoke of his credentials. Worse, she noticed then with another start that he and the Harbinger were wearing the exact same armor—a steel set with a carved wolf head on the breast plate—and it made her wonder what his station was amidst the Companions. Was he someone she would have to take orders from?

Kodlak spoke then, cutting into her unpleasant train of thought.

'Vilkas, your manners!' he chided with a laugh. 'And you know full well that I'm nobody's master. But the last time I checked, Jorrvaskr still had plenty of empty beds for those with a fire burning in their hearts.' His eyes flicked back over and landed on her, still glaring at the younger man. 'I have a feeling she more than fits that description.'

The man named Vilkas looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment he seemed to rein himself in; he exhaled sharply, and most of the heat left his gaze. His expression took on a sullen quality, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and flat.

'Apologies, Kodlak.'

 _Oh, apologies to Kodlak? Just to Kodlak?_

'But perhaps this isn't really the best time,' he continued. He waved one hand toward her and then let it drop, unmistakably dismissive. 'I've never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.' He said her name as if it tasted sour, and Merrin gritted her teeth as she felt seeds of dislike for him start to take root in her chest.

Neither man was looking at her for the moment, and Kodlak shook his head as he eyed his subordinate.

'You know that doesn't matter. Sometimes the famous come to our halls—other times the nameless turn up at our door, looking to _make_ their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.'

'Don't forget their arm,' was Vilkas' grumbled reply.

'Of course, of course.' Kodlak leaned back into his chair as he turned to look at Merrin again. 'It's plain to see that you're in good shape, girl. What did you do, before you came to us?'

Her problem wasn't with Kodlak; so far, he'd been nothing but respectful of her. She did her best to shove down her anger, and kept her voice level when she answered him. 'I was a sword for hire.'

'Ah, a mercenary.' He smiled. 'You'd be far from the first to join our ranks. And how are you in battle?'

'I can handle myself.' It was difficult not to throw a glare Vilkas' way, but she managed.

Kodlak seemed to catch her flare of temper, and his smile widened as his grey eyes twinkled. 'That may be so. We'll have to see.'

Merrin forced herself to relax; this was what she'd come here for. 'Of course. You have a test for me?'

He nodded, eyes still twinkling; he was all but a stranger, so she couldn't be sure, but she could've sworn it was a twinkle of merry mischief. 'Vilkas here will test your arm.'

Instantly, she stiffened, and the dark-haired man across from her did the same, like a mirror image. He was clearly bitterly regretting his earlier comment about newcomer's skill, and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands as his shoulders hunched up to practically meet his ears.

Kodlak turned to look at him, apparently oblivious to their obvious discomfort.

'Vilkas, take her out to the yard and see what she can do.'

'But Kodlak...' His voice was a blend of irritated and entreating, like he was going to beg Kodlak to reconsider.

Merrin fumed; she had no idea why someone who didn't know a thing about her would be so vocally doubtful of her skills. And she had no way of knowing what he was about to say, but she felt like she could safely assume that it was going to warm her up to the idea of hitting him with something.

Whatever he'd opened his mouth to say, Merrin never found out; Kodlak tilted his head and hit the younger man with a look that spoke volumes, so stern that it brooked no argument. After only a brief hesitation, Vilkas sighed roughly, his shoulders slumping, and gave a single defeated nod.

'Aye.'

The Harbinger nodded back at him, satisfied. 'Report back to me and tell me how she fares. I'll trust your opinion on her skill to be honest and impartial, as always.'

Vilkas only nodded again, and then he pulled himself up out of his chair and strode purposefully past her, not waiting for her to follow. Merrin thanked Kodlak for seeing her as quickly as she could, and then rushed after him, dread pooling in her stomach like molten metal.

As she caught up to Vilkas, her thoughts were awhirl, and she found it difficult not to panic.

Why on Nirn would Kodlak expect this... _s_ _keever_ to be honest about her skills?! He obviously had some sort of problem with her. Why wouldn't the Harbinger just come and watch her test for himself?

Vilkas said nothing as she caught up to him, and she had nothing to say to him, so they walked in stiff silence down the rest of the hallway and up the stairs to the main floor of the mead hall.

Other Companions had retaken their seats at the main table after Athis and Njada's fight, and several pairs of eyes now tracked them with interest as Vilkas led the way across the room. Still without uttering a word, he slipped through what she assumed were the back doors; she had to work to keep her hands from balling into fists as she caught a door and made to follow him, and she could hear curious murmurs coming from the room behind her as she slipped outside.

She'd been right about the doors leading to the back side of the mead hall; as she passed through them she found herself entering a sort of patio space, with a vaulted ceiling made of wooden pillars and slats that let the sunshine through, and a collection of rickety old tables to sit at. Vilkas had marched beyond that point, into what she could tell was the training yard; the practice ground was cobblestone worn smooth from centuries of sparring. Jorrvaskr's backyard butted up against the city's wall, and practice dummies were lined up along the worn grey stone. One of the city's lookout points was just off to the right, and an alcove jutting out from the wall gave an excellent view of the valley below. Just to the side of the lookout post was a ranged target for shooting practice—good incentive, when a couple of inches one way or the other meant keeping your arrow or hurling it out into the valley.

When her gaze returned to Vilkas' back, she realized she wasn't scared—her nerves had evaporated in the face of his underestimation. Now, there was only the desire to prove herself; to wipe the condescending look off of his face. When he finally turned around to face her, her expression was calm, and she steadily met and held his gaze.

'Alright. The old man wants me to test your arm, so let's get this over with.'

He'd grabbed two wooden practice swords from where they'd been leaning against the far wall, and he tossed one to her as she walked to close the gap between them. It sailed through the air before she caught it neatly, and when she looked back over at him, he snorted—as if he'd been hoping it would hit her in the face.

'I want you to try and land some hits, so I can get a feel for your skill. Are you familiar with point-system sparring?'

She eyed him for another moment before she answered curtly. 'Yes.'

He must not have bought her answer, because he opened his mouth and started explaining anyway, as if to a disobedient child.

'We're going to be using these practice swords to try and get successful hits in. A successful hit is any good blow to a vulnerable area—head, neck, underarm, thighs, tendons...that kind of thing. A successful hit gets you a point, which is acknowledged vocally when you hit it. Understand?'

'I understood before you said anything,' she snapped.

He made no response to her obvious irritation, his gaze landing on her unoccupied hand. 'Do you use a shield?'

'No. Never have. It's not my style.'

He snorted audibly in response, and muttered something quietly that sounded suspiciously like _'figures'_ as he shook his head. Her anger surged like a hot spew in her chest, but she forced it down. Remained collected.

'Alright then, might as well begin. Come at me, do your best to hit points. And don't worry.' He smirked at her then. 'You're not going to hurt me.'

How had this man ended up so insufferably cocky? 'We'll see about that.'

His only reply was to raise his shield at an angle close to his chest, and prepare the wooden sword to strike. She smoothly took a stance of her own by slipping into a cross guard—a move that would help lessen the obvious disadvantage she was at, fighting a shielded opponent.

And then began the slow circling. It was plain to see that the man in front of her was not at all serious about this fight, or about her. His weapon and shield were readied, but there was no tension in his body, no analysis in the eyes that swept over her. She didn't let it bother her; soon enough, she'd make him regret it.

Suddenly she heard the sound of the back doors opening behind her, and several people filing through them, and she whipped her head around.

Several of the people who'd been watching Athis and Njada's fight were now apparently intent on watching hers; many of the people she'd seen when she'd come into the mead hall were now taking chairs at the rickety tables, eyeing her appraisingly and talking among themselves.

'It's been a while since we've had a good testing to watch.'

A balding middle-aged man in plainclothes had spoken, and he sounded enthusiastic as he looked at her. In response, there was a barking sort of laugh from a man sitting at the next table over—a slightly older man, with a short silver pony-tail and a jagged scar ripping over a milky-white eye. He was also staring at Merrin with the eye that could see, and he seemed amused.

'Best calm yourself, Brill. No saying yet that this testing will be a _good_ one, either.'

'Don't judge too quickly yourself, you old burr.' Aela was standing just behind the gruff-looking warrior, and despite the casual way she leaned against the back of his chair, her eyes were fixed and gleaming on the two opponents, watching every stride. 'I have a feeling about this one.'

Her attention was yanked forcefully from the group of people watching her by the feeling of a practice sword slashing over her thigh.

'Point.'

When she snapped her head back around, Vilkas' steely blue eyes were on her face, and he gave her a sardonic smile as he waved his wooden sword in an arc through the air.

'You've already broken rule number one,' he said, his tone oddly triumphant. 'Never look away from your opponent.'

She gritted her teeth, trying not to glare. 'Relish it. It's not going to happen again.'

Merrin appraised him in earnest now; his form was undeniably excellent, and his guard was all but watertight, despite his lack of interest. If she was going to best him, she'd need to trip him up.

So she wasn't ceremonious about it—she feinted quickly to his right, and aimed a flicking slash right for his unguarded face.

A reckless or inexperienced fighter would panic, and throw their shield up to catch the attack, leaving themselves open to all sorts of others. But Vilkas was clearly neither; he leapt neatly back, without so much as moving his shield, and let the wood whistle by an inch from his face.

She drew back just as quickly as she'd come, calculating.

She'd been truthful in what she told him; in all her years fighting, she'd never used a shield—had never even liked the idea. That meant that she'd need to make him misuse his, or else she wouldn't be able to touch him, let alone best him. Without a shield, she couldn't bash, couldn't plow her way in, couldn't shove his defenses aside. And had no way of countering if _he_ decided to try any of those things.

She'd have to rely on precision. Speed. Good form and footwork. She'd have to make him work against himself.

So Merrin picked up the pace; she started to force him to move around more, and took short, quick swings at his sword-arm that he had no choice but to counter.

After several seconds of quick jabbing and parrying, she got what she wanted; she swung high as if to hit him in the head or neck, and he caught her sword from below, swinging it violently down and around in a wide-arcing deflection. She used the momentum he'd contributed to, and there was nothing he could do as she lunged forward, slashing her wooden sword across his inner thigh, jumping away again before he could strike back.

It was tit for tat, and the irony clearly wasn't escaping anybody—a few hoots of laughter could be heard from behind them, and Vilkas looked nothing short of affronted as she tipped her head to the side and shot him a smug smile that she couldn't hold back. 'Point,' she said, with mock sweetness.

After that, things picked up speed. It became quickly clear to her that Vilkas was as prideful as she'd perceived him to be—and competitive, too. After she landed that hit, all of the indifference left his steely eyes, and he responded in a way that said ' _Now I'm participating.'_ He started initiating his own blows, and they came fast and hard, forcing her to compensate.

The moves were a dance she'd been practicing for years, and as their speed increased and the stakes rose higher, her focus narrowed until all she knew was him—her opponent, the push to her pull, the cause to her effect—and in this focus she found a strange sense of ease. She no longer heard the murmurs of the crowd behind them.

Before long, they were a whirlwind of determination, and the sound of wood striking wood rang out across the training yard, punctuated with the grunting of exertion. The two of them turned out to be pretty evenly matched, a revelation neither party was happy with; Merrin was faster and lighter on her feet, and could take more risks because of it. But even though she was a strong woman, Vilkas was stronger; he kept grinding through her cross-checks, and on the rare occasion that he managed to bash her with his shield, she paid for it.

And they were scoring points on each other—a feint too slow resulting in a jab to the ribs, an ambitious side-roll ending in a slash to the tendons behind the knee.

The only word they said to one another was 'point', whenever one was scored. But somewhere along the way, the fight had become personal for both of them; each time someone said it, it was in a tone slightly more ferocious than the last time, and the one little word was crammed with all of the various others left unsaid, but keenly felt.

She chalked his animosity up to a bad attitude and too much self-importance...but _she_ had something to prove. Her acceptance into the Companions likely hinged on this. And she was determined to make him eat his underestimation—raw, with no seasoning, if possible.

Then came a turning point in the fight. When they were at seven and six in Vilkas' favor, Vilkas swung out at her free arm, and as she was crossing herself to parry the strike, he landed a punishing blow to her shoulder with his shield, so fast she could only watch it come.

She yelled in pain as the shoulder wrenched horribly, and she went flying back from the impact of the shield. He advanced on her, sword poised to strike, and she had to scramble immediately to her feet, while spectators exclaimed at her back.

The shoulder was finished for now—it would need healing later, and she couldn't continue the fight using it. She gingerly tried to roll it, and cursed before quickly letting it drop again.

She looked up then at her opponent. Vilkas was breathing hard from exertion, and his eyes were alight with obvious triumph; he clearly believed he'd won.

Merrin snorted. 'I'm not done yet.'

And she took her sword up into her other hand.

Vilkas let out a snort of his own, looking incredulous. 'Come now, have some dignity. Know when to admit that a fight is over.'

Anger flared in her once again, and she replied in her flat, unyielding way.

'When this fight is really over, we'll _both_ know it. Now come on.'

Vilkas looked shocked as she advanced on him, and very soon, he looked unhappy as well; a left-handed opponent was the bane of most warriors, and for good reason. With two right-handed fighters, the match had symmetry, and reliability. A set of patterns. Against a left-handed opponent, every pattern was turned upside-down, and a man was left scrambling.

He parried her first strike imperfectly, and raised his voice over the excited shouting of the people behind them, watching this new development unfold.

'You have two sword arms?' He was scowling readily now, and sounding offended, and it evoked a fierce smile from her in return.

'I told you a shield wasn't my style.'

He let out a sound close to a _harrumph_ , and the match resumed, Vilkas redoubling his efforts.

He was losing ground, and they both new it; Merrin's left hand wasn't her dominant one, but she was more than proficient. She kept her injured arm tucked close to her body, and was no slower on her feet for it. Vilkas had to work much harder to anticipate her reversed movements, and as they fought she kept a hawk-like vigil for his mistakes.

She stayed up in his space as much as possible, hampering his use of his sword, and it wasn't long before he started making them; he tried to bash at her again and she stepped neatly out of his way before jabbing at his extended underarm, evening out the score.

'Point.'

The spar ended at the first to reach ten points, or the first to disarm. With seven points each, it was creeping close, and the tension he'd been lacking at the start of the match was rolling off of him in palpable waves. He decided to try something new then, and lunged abruptly forward with his shield primed ahead of him and his sword angled down towards her from over top of it.

She knew the move well—in Morrowind, they called it the Goring Boar—and with no shield, her only recourse was to get out of the way.

Her injury was tiring her, sapping her energy, and she barely made it out of his way before he barrelled through the air she'd occupied, spinning her body to angle away from him. In those moments she was completely open for attack, but he couldn't capitalize on them. In the end, his own momentum tripped him up again—she whacked him non-too-gently on the back of the head while he was still facing away from her.

'Point.'

He snarled in reply. It was plain to see that he was angry; when he whipped around to face her again, two spots of livid color stood out high on his cheekbones, and his eyes were as hard and as cold as gems.

 _Somebody's not used to losing, I see._

After that, he changed his strategy—he closed up completely. He took two full strides back from where he'd been, putting distance between them, and reverted to his initial game; all defense, as opposed to offense.

After a couple of dead-end jabs, Merrin hissed through gritted teeth. She knew what he was trying to do: outlast her, so that her injury burned her out, and he could swoop in when she was too tired to fight. What kind of victory was that?

 _I have to get him to take a chance._

Eyeing him solidly, she adjusted her plan. Her shoulder was throbbing, and her breath was coming hard; she didn't have much time to work with.

She began a series of feints and jabs. At first, they were all well done, the same as she'd been delivering throughout. In response, he watched her carefully, doing as little as he could get away with, blocking all of her attempts to reach him.

Then, slowly, she started getting a little sloppy; getting a little too close to him, being a little too slow when she backed away, and letting her form sag into flaw. Exactly how a person would look if they were falling to an injury, and getting exhausted.

After a few tense seconds of analysis, Vilkas re-engaged. He started trying to hit her with efficient jabs, that would do what was necessary if they managed to land. She waited as long as possible before dodging them clumsily, and before long, the fire of frustration had re-ignited in his eyes.

 _Yes_. Feeling her legs start to cramp, she ramped up her efforts. She started feinting in even closer to him now, leaving herself open from several angles, and leaping back just out of his reach at the last possible moment, so that she could feel the wind from his sword on her skin. It was a gamble she was taking; many of those swings came within inches of her injured arm, and if one of them landed, she'd be sorry.

More and more she taunted him, and farther and farther he swung his sword in his attempt to strike her. Both of them were sweating profusely now under the summer sun, and his teeth were gritted and bared as he growled again in frustration.

Finally, he took the bait.

Merrin went hopping back from this last poorly executed feint as quickly as she could, and Vilkas lunged after her with his sword close to fully extended, letting out a strangled cry as he went.

It all hinged on how she executed the next moment. Ignoring the screaming of her arm and legs, she jumped to the left as his sword entered her space, managing to evade his slashing arc. In the same fluid moment, she used her own sword to chop down past his guard, and strike his naked wrist as hard as she could.

There was a definitive _crack_ as her sword connected, and then it was her opponent's turn to yell out in pain. Vilkas' hand fell open with a jolt, and his practice sword fell to the ground at his feet—it was a successful disarm.

For a second, the only sound around was their ragged breathing. He dropped his shield and clutched his injured wrist, staring at the sword on the ground as if he couldn't believe it was there. Then he looked up at her.

Merrin was staring coolly at him, restraining the urge to jump and scream at her victory. That kind of display would lessen the impact of her victory, with someone like _him_. Instead, she shot him a smirk of her own, as smug and self-assured as she could make it.

She was remembering his earlier words, and the distaste in his voice, letting them both wash over her in her moment of triumph.

' _Perhaps this isn't the best time. I've never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.'_

Then she lifted her chin in defiance, and spoke in a voice that was cool and flat.

'Well, you've heard of me _now_.'


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I have news! I made a twitter account for fun, affiliated with this account and my account at AO3! FFnet is great, but it can be hard to share multi-media stuff, and that's what the twitter account will be for! Head to twitter and find me at gwap_queen00 if you'd like, for jokes, memes, stories, theories, debates & more for all things Skyrim & Dragon Age! Also, many pictures of my cats.**

 **I'd love to hear from & engage with you guys!**

'Come on, Ria, stop fussing. I'll be _fine_. I swear, you worry too much.'

Athis let go of the neck of his mead bottle, and made a half-hearted attempt at swatting away his friend's fluttering hands. 'It's feeling better already. It's just a bruise.'

The Dunmer was laying on his bed in the whelps' room, his back propped up against several pillows. He was already into his third bottle of mead, and the effects of the drink had relaxed him considerably; he wasn't as sore as he'd been when his two closest friends had propped him there, and he no longer saw what the fuss was about.

The mead had been Torvar's idea, and he made a somewhat blurry mental note to thank him for it later.

But the Imperial at his side hadn't had any mead, and the look she was shooting him with dark brown eyes was just a hair short of mutinous.

'It's _not_ just a bruise, you idiot.' She slapped his shooing hand away, ignoring his indignant _'hey!'_ , and returned her attention to the mer's exposed torso. She was daubing salve onto an angry purple bloom that was swathing its way across his abdomen, looking swollen, livid even against his dark skin.

'And I worry about you _because_ you don't! You don't take care of yourself. Who else is going to keep your dumb ass alive?'

The Dunmer laughed, and she rolled her eyes. Athis had gone to bed willingly enough—but as soon as their idiot friend had suggested that a bit of mead was all he needed, he'd been impossible ever since.

'If you won't do the smart thing and drink a potion, then you _will_ at least sit here while I put this on.' The woman dabbled in the healing arts, and she kept a jar of the waxy yellow salve in her chest of drawers for situations just like this.

'Ria, you're a sweet one. But you go to too much trouble.' He let his head fall back against the closest pillow, and stared a little glassily at the ceiling. 'Everything will be fine, with or without your fancy goop.'

'No.' She replied crisply, swiping the bottle of mead while he wasn't looking and setting it on the ground. 'Everything will be _fine_ when you get your _head_ on straight, and stop inviting Njada to maul you like a cave bear.'

The Dunmer scoffed. ' _Pfft!_ Njada? Please. Everyone knows she just got a lucky hit in.'

'Hmmm.' She sniffed. 'Guess she just got lucky the last...what, seven times in a row? I'm thinking you maybe overestimate your abilities, Athis. Just a _tiny_ little bit.'

The two had been friends long enough that she had no qualms over speaking her mind, and she ignored the elf as he shot his head up to look at her again.

' _Woman!_ You wound me!' His face took on a tragic expression that was only half jesting, and he groped around on his mattress for his bottle of mead. After a brief and fruitless search, he gave up, and threw the hand over his brow instead. 'I lay here with a beaten body, and what does she do? She beats my pride.'

The Imperial shook out her long hair and snorted again. 'More like your ego!' She had another retort on the tip of her tongue, but her train of thought was interrupted by the door to the living quarters blasting open outside, and the sound of heavy footfalls racing towards the whelps' room.

Before either of them could so much as furrow a brow, the door to their quarters went flying open too, hitting the wall with a bang.

It was Torvar standing in the threshold, looking absolutely _giddy_ with excitement.

'Torvar—what—?'

'You are not gonna _believe_ what you sorry sops just missed! I can hardly believe it!' The scruffy blonde was shouting to the room at large, despite it being just the three of them there.

She crinkled her nose as she looked at him. 'Huh? What are you talking about?'

Torvar's eyes gleamed as he cracked a grin. 'Honestly, Athis, you're gonna wanna kick yourself. You've gotta stop asking Njada to hand you your ass. It makes you miss out!'

The Dunmer's red eyes lit up with indignation. 'For the love of—you _too_?' He made a rude hand gesture at the man in the doorway before dropping his head back against the pillow. 'Snakes, the both of you.'

' _Torvar_.' Ria's dark brows were arched, her tone impatient. ' _What_ are we not going to believe? Spit it out!'

Everyone knew Torvar was a gossiping hen—as bad as the old women in the city. It was plain from the look on his face that he was enjoying being the bearer of big news. After another second's pause, he finally opened his mouth.

'You saw the gal who came walking in while dumb and dumber were whaling on each other? Tall, dark, foxy? Ended up talkin' to Aela?'

'Yeah...' Ria rolled her eyes, ignoring Athis spluttering beside them ( _who are you calling dumb, Nord?!_ ) and shrugged her shoulders. 'What about her?'

It was as if he were timing himself to a silent drumroll. 'She came 'cause she wants to be one of us! You just missed her bein' tested.'

Ria looked at him, confused, and then _tsk_ ed with annoyance. 'Really? That's all? Why'd you come slamming the door open like a maniac, then? I've been trying to clean up this mess _you_ encouraged.'

She jabbed a hand in the direction of Athis' stomach—or maybe just Athis as a whole. People came asking to join the Companions on a regular basis, seeking glory. Few were actually accepted. In her opinion, the news was hardly worth the fanfare.

Her reaction clearly wasn't what Torvar had been looking for; he visibly deflated some at her lack of excitement, and threw his hands up in the air, looking harried.

'No, come on, you don't _get_ it! A few of us went out to watch the match, like always, y'know? And I came to tell you you missed out, 'cause she was actually _good_.' His eyes were already gleaming again.

'Like, _real_ good. I think she's gonna make it in.'

He'd said the magic words, now; her interest was piqued. She put a hand on her hip and stared at him.

'For real?'

She was the newest recruit they had, and had been for five months. She'd quickly befriended the two men beside her, and they'd been happy to show her the ropes. They'd also included her in one of their favorite past-times—watching and laughing at the various people that came looking to make their names and fortunes, when they got soundly beaten in their testing.

In all the time she'd called Jorrvaskr her home, they'd only had _one_ other promising recruit—and he'd ended up changing his mind.

 _This_ reaction was more like it—Torvar grinned at her again as he crossed his arms over his chest.

'For real. But you haven't even heard the best part.' With his audience now properly engaged, he paused one more time for effect.

'Vilkas was the one who tested her.'

She took a second to absorb this news, and then _she_ was the one breaking into a grin. 'Wait...are you serious? _Vilkas_ tested her...and she was really _good_?'

Vilkas was an established member of the Circle; he was far above any of them, in rank. But he was also infamously known as the most stubborn, prideful, arrogant person in all of Jorrvaskr. Not that his skill didn't _warrant_ it, but...making fun of _him_ was another favorite past-time. Probably for more Companions than would admit it.

She snorted a laugh. 'I bet his ego can hardly bear it.'

'Oh, definitely not.' Athis had re-joined the conversation, a sly smile spreading across his pointed face. 'We all know he revels in handing out humility.'

'No, it's even better that that.' Torvar was so excited, his voice had risen back up to a gleeful shout.

'You guys, she kicked his _ass_!'

* * *

One of the men behind her let out a long, impressed whistle. Somebody else laughed and clapped their hands together, once, twice. A chair went scraping against the cobblestones, and then the wooden door opened and slammed shut as somebody hurried through.

She didn't turn around to look at her audience—she didn't turn away from Vilkas.

He was looking like he was having difficulty controlling himself.

His chest and shoulders heaved as he breathed deeply through his nose, in and out, nostrils flaring like a stallion's. His mouth was clamped tightly shut, like he was holding in a string of curses, and his eyes were wider than they'd been during the fight—despite his deeply furrowed brows—and more than a touch wild as he stared at her. His stance was rigid, and he was clutching his injured wrist in a way that looked like it would hurt more than help.

She had no idea what to expect from him next—clearly, he'd taken the loss just as personally as she'd taken the win. She stood still where she was, out of easy reach, eyeing him warily.

They stayed that way for what seemed like an endless moment, sweating under the hot sun, neither of them saying anything.

And then he surprised her by visibly gathering himself.

The bulk of the tension eased from his body; the wolf on his breastplate stopped bobbing around as his breath settled, and his brow smoothed over as the wild look seeped out of his piercing eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was clipped and stilted, his mouth still held in a stiff sort of way, and his eyes were still hard, like he was trying to cow her.

'Very well. That's enough. You've performed adequately. I'll report to Kodlak shortly as to how you did.'

Merrin nodded once, curtly, and then looked down again to the wrist he still continued to clutch; his eyes followed her gaze, and when he saw where it landed, he abruptly pulled his hand away. The skin of his wrist was already swelling up and reddening. When she looked back up, two matching red patches on his cheeks had returned.

'So what happens now?' She kept her voice as reserved as his; her gut was stirring with fresh curiosity and excitement, but she had no plans to let him detect either.

As she spoke, the remaining people murmured among themselves behind them, before collectively pushing away from their tables and filing back inside, leaving the two of them alone in the yard. She turned her head to watch them go; Aela was the last to leave, and she shot Merrin an approving smile before she glided through the door.

'You've passed your first test.' He took another slow breath, eyes boring into hers when she turned back to face him. 'Which makes you a whelp. And that means you have work to do.' With his left hand, he reached around himself, and started to unbuckle his sword-belt from where it hung at his hip. When he slid the belt off and thrust his sword at her, scabbard and all, a ghost of his former cockiness had rekindled in his face.

She ignored the sword-belt and narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. 'What did you just call me?'

'A whelp.' He shot her an antagonistic smirk. 'It's what all the new blood around here gets called. Best get used to it.'

Furious words came leaping up her throat. But she bit her tongue to smother them, and only hit him with a glare.

'Now,' he continued, ignoring her mutinous expression. 'My _real_ sword needs sharpening. Take it up to Eorlund Gray-Mane, at the Skyforge. He'll know what to do with it. And don't drop it—this blade is probably worth more than your hide, several times over.'

He shoved the sword-belt into her good arm, and spun around on his heel, taking off towards the mead hall without another word. When he made it through the wooden door, he slammed it shut behind him.

It was her turn to stand there steaming, at a loss for words. _Who did this asshole think he was?!_

She glared venomously down at the sword in her hand, as if it had personally done her wrong, and then out at the mountain vista beyond the city wall. She was now all alone in the training yard; for ten whole seconds, she contemplated just marching over to the look-out post, and pitching his sword over the wall and down into the valley below.

Then she mentally shook herself. This Vilkas may have been a pompous creep...but she still wanted to be here. And it seemed like he was calling at least some of the shots.

Breathing through her nose to try and calm herself, she started across the training yard. Around the far side of the mead hall was a curving stone staircase carved from naturally jutting rock, and as she started climbing the worn stone steps, she tried to push Vilkas' stupid face from her mind.

She wasn't having much success. But when she reached the top of the steps and looked out ahead of her, a chunk of her anger evaporated all on its own.

She was staring at a legend.

Across a well-kept stone pavilion, the Skyforge spread out in front of her. Spearing up from the forge itself was a resplendent phoenix carved out of stone, standing at least fifty feet tall; mighty wings spread as if about to take flight, its face both regal and impassive as it stared out into the cloudless blue sky. She couldn't figure how, but the eyes of the magnificent bird themselves were two balls of burning flame.

Below, through the holes connecting its massive wings to the mountain they'd been carved from, large spaces gave a breath-taking view of the valleys below them, and the mountains beyond, lush with summertime. The forge itself lay at the mighty bird's feet; the far rim was clutched in long, brutal talons, giving way to a circle of stone raised from the rest of the pavilion. Bigger than any forge she'd ever seen, let alone used, it glowed red and white-hot, like the maw of a dragon, and fiery sparks went leaping into the air in cascade, chasing spirals of greyish smoke.

Merrin clutched the sword, her shoulder forgotten; her father had been a fanciful story-teller, and yet the forge in front of her lived up to his description of it—surpassed it. Her stomach lurched as she drank it all in, breathless, and the smith in her's fingers itched with the urge to pick up a hammer and tongs. She'd dreamed for years of using a forge this fine.

It took several long moments for her to come out of her reverie, and remember she wasn't alone there. Beyond the forge sat a more modern work-space, and _another_ legend was currently sitting with his back to her, working at a grindstone.

The massive Nord sat hunched over his work in nothing but breeches and leather boots; he was bare from the waist up, and despite the famous smith's considerable age, his back was still broad, his arms still formidable, and work-hardened muscles rippled with exertion as he tended to his work. Even from a distance, she could see that a sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his long grey hair hung down around his face and shoulders in ropy strings, soaked from the summer sun and the heat of the forge.

As she stood staring at him, he straightened up suddenly in the worn wooden seat, swiping at his brow with a sooty forearm, and turned his face to catch some breeze. In doing so, he saw her in the corner of his vision; right away, he got to his feet, and turned to get a proper look at this stranger on his steps. He used one enormous hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and called out to her.

'Hail, girl. What brings you here?'

Merrin took a sharp breath in. The voice that called out to her was rich, and booming, and heavily accented. The famous Eorlund Gray-Mane was talking to her.

 _You can't just stand here gawping, idiot._

Swallowing hard on a fresh flutter of nerves, she started walking quickly towards him.

'H-Hail.' Her voice came out high and a bit timid, and she repressed the urge to smack her own forehead.

The smith was even more commanding up close. The famous gray mane framed either side of a chiseled face, with a hard, square jaw only emphasized by a beard of the same steely color. He had rawboned cheeks made dark by the sun, and the deep-set eyes that regarded her were a dark and serious blue.

Overall he looked stern, but not unkind, and as he stared at her expectantly, she pushed herself to speak.

'You're...you're Eorlund Gray-Mane, right?' Her voice was only somewhat less shaky.

'That I am.' He either didn't notice her visible nerves, or was too polite to comment on them. 'And you are...?'

'Oh.' She took another breath, bit the inside of her cheek. 'Ah...my name is Merrin. Hakonsdotter.'

He lifted a wild, bushy gray brow. 'And what can I do for you today?'

His question pulled her back into herself, and she felt the weight of the sword in her hand once more. Remembering the sword made her remember its owner, and the breath she'd taken went wooshing out of her in fresh irritation. She straightened up, and looked at him without the nerves.

'Vilkas sent me here with his sword. He says he needs you to sharpen it.'

'That a fact?' Something in the blacksmith's expression lightened, and he looked at her now with some interest. 'So, I take it that you're a newcomer, then?'

'You'd be correct. I just passed my testing now.' She handed over the sword-belt when he reached for it, and then bit her lip. She had a question that she was nervous to ask—after a second of indecision, she asked it.

'Does Vilkas always make the newcomers run his errands for him?' Her voice betrayed some of her animosity, and she winced. Who knew how the man in front of her felt about the jerk?

But Eorlund surprised her by cracking a smile.

'Oh, he tries.' With practised ease, he unsheathed the sword from the scabbard, laying the leather aside, and started running his fingers along the blade's edge.

'Some of the more experienced ones like to try and throw their weight around. That boy fancies himself an authority figure. Always has.' He looked back up to meet her eye, and his expression was warm and reassuring. 'But they were all whelps once. Whether they like to admit it or not.'

His smile tugged out a smile of her own, and she uncrossed the arms she hadn't noticed she'd crossed, letting them fall to her sides. 'Is that right?'

'That's right.' He held the blade up to the light and brought it close to his face, giving the edge a critical eye. 'I've been 'round long enough to see all of them newcomers. Fresh-faced, barely tested.'

'Well, _he's_ already started exerting his 'authority' over me.' The sarcasm in her voice was thick, and she was surprised again when he let out a deep chuckle.

'Let me tell you somethin', girl. Doing favors for folks here can be helpful—get you favors in return, or even forge friendships.' He put the sword down on a stone work table, and turned to face her again.

'But nobody runs anybody, 'round here. Every man—and woman...' He eyed her pointedly. 'Is in charge of themselves. You don't owe anyone anything. Including Vilkas. Next time he asks you to do somethin' for him, if you don't feel like doing it, you remind him the gods gave him two legs that work.' He smiled at her again, and his blue eyes twinkled.

She smiled back, much more easily this time. 'Really? Thank you then, for the advice. I'll...keep it in mind.'

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the vindictive part of her was already imagining the look on Vilkas' face, and it made her smile widen.

Eorlund waved a hand at her. 'Ah, don't mention it. It's nothing. You just looked nervous when I first saw you there. Figured I might help a bit.'

A rare blush crept over Merrin's face, and she ducked her head. 'Was I really that obvious?'

He only shrugged, saying nothing, and she could feel herself already taking a liking to the burly old smith. It was one thing to be skilled; it was another to be kind. She struggled again with some indecision, and decided again to be honest.

'I wasn't nervous about being a...newcomer.' She flat-out _refused_ to use the word _whelp_. 'I was actually nervous about meeting _you_. I, ah..I was raised on stories of the legendary Skyforge and Eorlund Gray-Mane—the greatest smith in all of Tamriel.' She looked up at him, and gave a tentative smile. 'Meeting you is a child's dream come true.'

Now it was the older man's turn to blush; ruddy color stained his cheeks, and his eyes were twinkling more than ever when he ducked his head to stare at the ground, waving his hands as if to shoo away her words.

'Ah, nonsense. I hardly do a thing.' His voice was gruff now where it hadn't been, and he jerked a thumb at the Skyforge as he turned his back to her, suddenly busying himself with his tools. 'It's the forge that does all the work.'

She shook her head, still smiling. 'No, really. You're too modest. Your fame is wide-spread, and well-deserved. My own da was a fine admirer of your work.'

'Oh, yeah?' He hadn't turned around to face her. 'Bought my Skyforge steel, did he?'

'No, no. He admired your _skill._ Your _craft_. My da was a smith himself, right up until he died. And I ran the smithy with him for years.' That was _two_ people she'd told, in nearly as many days.

Eorlund went still, putting down whatever he'd been holding, and slowly turned around to look at her again.

'That a fact? You're a smith?' He'd been staring at her with some interest before, but _now_ he stood there _assessing_ her.

'I _used_ to be a smith,' she corrected. 'After da passed, I went and did other things.'

He let out a sort of rumble that sounded like approval, and shook his head as he continued to look her over. 'Once a smith, always a smith, girl. Don't forget it.' He nodded to himself, and after another second, turned back around. She noticed that he'd continued working on the blade he'd been holding when she first got there, and left Vilkas' sword to sit on the worktable. For whatever reason, this made her like him even more.

'Oh, yeah? And what about you? How long have you been working the Skyforge? Longer than I've been around, for sure.'

He laughed again. 'I've been tendin' the forge more years than I care to count, by now. Long enough that I've seen several Harbingers come and go.'

Merrin's curiosity was piqued. 'And you're not a Companion yourself?'

The smith snorted in response. 'Me? Gods, no. This forge is a full-time job. I've got no time to be runnin' 'round the province.'

She could see that it was time to put the blade back to the grindstone, and as if he'd read her mind, he walked over in an absent-minded sort of way to ladle more water onto the rock. Then he sat back down on the little wooden seat, and shook his head.

'No, I'm just a smith. None of them knows how to work a forge properly, and it's my great honor to serve them.'

'I see.' She felt a sudden pang of self-consciousness—she'd been there far longer than she'd thought she'd be. She'd figured it would just be her handing over the sword and getting out of his way, and already she'd been up here a while. She didn't want to wear out her welcome.

'Ah...it was wonderful to actually meet you, Sir Gray-Mane. But I've taken up enough of your time. I'd better be heading back to the hall.'

He turned around to stare at her, nose crinkled, brow furrowed. 'Sir? Ain't nobody who calls me ' _sir'_ , girl. Just call me Eorlund.'

'Oh. Er...alright then...Eorlund.' To think, the world's best smith would have her call him by name!

'And before you go, I actually have a favour to ask.'

She tilted her head at him, eyes questioning.

'I've been working on a shield for Aela. I'm not sure if you've met her yet? She's one of the Companions. Tall, red hair, war paint?' He slashed a hand in front of his face, fingers bent like claws.

'I've met her.'

'Yeah? Good. I finished the shield today, but I don't have time to bring it to her.' He dropped her gaze, looking down at the ground instead. 'My wife and I are in mourning, and I need to get back home to her soon. I'd be much obliged if you could take the shield to Aela for me.'

'Of course. I'd be happy to.' The words were out of her instantly, completely genuine. She wondered who the smith was in mourning for, but didn't dare ask.

He nodded. 'Very good.' He got back up to grab the shield—a sturdy looking piece made of hard wood and trimmed in steel—and when he looked at her again, he was smiling.

'I thank you.' He handed her the shield, and she shook her head as she took it with her good arm.

'It's nothing. I'm glad to help.'

She turned away from the smith then, and started back the way she'd come. She was a few steps away when he called out to her.

'Hey. You said your name was Merrin, girl?'

She stopped, turned around, pleased that he'd remembered. 'That's right.'

'Were you any good, with your father's forge?'

Her heart gave a funny, fluttering thump, and the smile she threw him was bitter-sweet. 'Well...by the time I lost him, he was calling it _my_ forge.' How it hurt to remember.

He nodded, seeming pleased. 'That's good to hear. I don't mean to be insultin', but if you're gonna be runnin' with the Companions, you're gonna be needin' some better gear. Why don't you come up in a day or so's time, and show me what you're made of? We can work something out together.'

Merrin's mouth fell open. _Work_ in the Skyforge? _Touch_ the Skyforge? If only her father were still here.

'That...' she said faintly. 'That would be great.'

His smile broke into a grin. 'Thought so. Alright then, I'll see you on the morrow. Go on.'

And he turned back to his work and started grinding.

She came down the stairs in a _completely_ different mood then when she'd climbed them; there was a spring in her step despite her many aches and pains, and she was actually _hugging_ the shield to her chest. A part of her felt like a little girl again—and all things considered, she didn't mind. It made an appropriate sort of sense.

Her problems hadn't gone away—not by a long shot. But out of a long week of things going wrong, she was starting to feel like she'd caught some sort of break.

She hurried across the training yard and slipped through one of the double doors, focused on her quarry; for the moment, she'd forgotten Vilkas, and was only preoccupied with finding Aela.

* * *

The mead hall was much cooler than the city outside, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she was enveloped by the wood and stone. She scanned the hall from end to end, but didn't see Aela there—didn't see _anyone_. So she took a right in front of the crackling fire, and headed for the staircase to the living quarters.

It was even cooler here, in the underground tunnel made mainly of stone, and the sweat on the back of Merrin's neck chilled as she closed the door behind her.

It was then that she realized with a sudden pang of irritated nerves that she didn't know where Aela's quarters were; why was she always forgetting to ask after the important details? She sighed.

There was a door almost directly in front of her, its frame surrounded in shields, but she had no idea what room it guarded—further down the hallway, she remembered there'd been two branching hallways, going in opposite directions.

She hovered there, doubtful. Should she just start knocking on doors? It hardly seemed appropriate.

But it never came to that. As she stood there holding the shield and pursing her lips, a gentle voice came to her from down the hall.

'Is there something I can help you with, dear?'

Merrin was startled, and turned immediately to see who'd spoken: a petite, somewhat frail-looking woman stood several paces down the hall, holding a broom in one withered hand.

She was obviously advanced in years; her small, pale face was deeply lined, and her wide mouth was shrivelled past its prime. High cheekbones led to sallow hollows beneath them, slightly sagging, and the short, straight hair that was tucked behind her ears was a blended mix of white and silver.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting when she turned towards the voice, but it definitely wasn't what she'd found. What was a tiny old lady doing in a mead hall full of warriors?

Several seconds had passed since she'd spoken, and the woman was looking at her expectantly. Merrin shook herself.

'Um, perhaps. I'm looking for Aela's room.' She lifted the shield with the arm that wasn't aching. 'I'm supposed to bring her this, but I don't know where I'm going.'

The old woman had covered the distance between them as she'd spoken, so that now she was standing within arm's reach. This close, Merrin was struck by two things.

The first was the old woman's size—or lack thereof. Everything about this woman was thin, from her arms, to her neck, to the bony fingers gripping the broom shaft, and the simple yellow dress she wore hung off her slender frame with room to spare. She was so short, that Merrin could easily tuck her chin over the top of her head.

The second was her eyes. Without a doubt, they were her dominant feature—where the woman was old, the eyes were still young. They were a brilliant sapphire blue, sparkling with warmth and vivacity, and they were full of intelligence as they held her gaze.

'Ah.' The woman's lips stretched into a kind, knowing smile. 'So you must be the newcomer, then.'

How did she already know there _was_ a newcomer? Merrin felt like she'd only been there ten minutes.

'Yes...that's me.'

The older woman reached out a hand; not wanting to seem rude, Merrin returned the gesture, doing her best to ignore the shriek of her shoulder. The woman's bony hand was surprisingly firm, cool and dry to the touch as they shook in greeting.

'Welcome to Jorrvaskr, then, dear. My name is Tilma. I work for the Companions.' Her smile broke into a grin, and she chuckled. 'Both cookin' their meals, and cleanin' up their messes.'

 _Ah. That made sense._ She nodded down at the slender old woman. 'My name is Merrin. Well met.'

The woman stopped shaking her hand, but still held it, and craned her head back to look her over, seeming pleased. 'My, such lovely manners! I have a feelin' the two of us will get along just fine.'

Cheerful friendliness rolled off of this woman in waves, and Merrin found herself smiling easily back at her. 'I'm happy to hear it.'

'Now.' Tilma dropped her hand and grabbed the broom, leaning on it easily. 'You said you were looking for Aela?'

'That's right.'

'That girl makes her bed in a room down the hall.' She twisted around to the hallway yawning behind them, and pointed one crooked finger to the opening branching left. 'Take a left at the fork, and then another. That'll bring you to Aela's door.'

Merrin let out a grateful sigh. 'Thank you. I really appreciate it.'

'Happy to help, dear.' Her eyes twinkled merrily. 'I hope you end up liking it here!'

She chuckled as she turned to go. 'So do I. It was a pleasure to meet you.'

Tilma waved her off gaily, and then returned her attention to sweeping.

Without further ado, she straightened up and hurried away, taking the directions she'd been given; in no time at all, she was passing through the opening in the wall full of shields, and headed for a room with the door left open.

The warm glow of torchlight spilled over the floor, and she could hear voices, one female, one male. They were speaking low and she couldn't make the words out, but the tone was quick and urgent.

She stepped into the threshold, rapping her knuckles against the frame at the same moment, to make her presence known.

'Aela?'

Now she could see the other person in the room; it was the older man who'd watched her during her match against Vilkas, the fierce-looking warrior with the pony-tail and one good eye.

The two of them were standing mere inches apart—they'd been staring intently at one another, and the man had one hand curled around Aela's bicep.

Their reaction to her entrance was strange; he abruptly cut off whatever he'd been saying, and they both turned to look at her, seeming startled. In the same motion, they simultaneously leapt apart, so that several feet of empty air stood between them, and a stiff, awkward silence enveloped the room.

Merrin may have had no-one to call her own, but she was _still_ a woman. She eyed them steadily for a second, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she spoke again. 'I can come back, if I'm interrupting.'

In a split second, the red-head schooled her features; she waved a hand casually and shook her head, looking business-like. 'Nonsense. You're not interrupting anything. What brings you to my quarters?'

Merrin's gaze slid over momentarily, to look at the man in the room. He too had adopted a composed expression, and his arms were crossed in front of his chest. It was then that she noticed his armor; it was a match to Vilkas and Kodlak's. Another important man?

 _Hmmm. Suspicious._ Quickly, she looked back at Aela.

'Eorlund Gray-Mane sent me. He finished the shield you asked him for, and I'm to give it to you.' She lifted the shield up to show her, and the steel caught the flickering light of the torches.

Aela's face brightened as she reached for the shield, and she eyed it expertly as she held it aloft, running one hand over the smooth wooden ridges. 'Excellent! I've been dying to give this a try. I'll have to go and thank Eorlund later.' She turned to walk across the room, and hung the shield on her far wall, on a peg already waiting. As she did, Merrin had a chance to look around.

The room seemed more trophy room than bedroom; everywhere she looked, there were prizes from the hunt. Several sets of twelve-point antlers adorned the walls on red velvet mounts, and instead of the red rugs she'd been seeing, the floor had two separate pelts spread over it—both of them were bear. Several low tables were scattered along the walls, and a desk sat solidly in the far corner. The tables were topped with open display cases—some held weapons, but others held tools for processing both meat and hides. The desk was well-lit by several stout candles, puddling pale wax, and the work-surface was dominated by what looked like a headdress of feathers, partially constructed.

A single bed was shoved up against the wall by the door, like an after-thought. Instead of a quilt, it was covered in a luxurious snow-sabre pelt.

She was impressed, and her wandering eyes were only called back when Aela spoke to her again.

'I wanted to congratulate you on your testing.' She hit Merrin with a smile that was a hint feral, and her green eyes flickered in the candlelight. 'We were both impressed. You gave Vilkas quite the thrashing.'

The man beside them laughed then, a hacking sort of chuckle that sounded like a bark—the first noise he'd made since she'd entered the room. 'Don't let Vilkas hear you saying that.'

He had a commanding voice, rich, a bit rough around the edges. But when he turned to face Merrin, he looked amused.

'But she's right. You did good.'

He leaned toward her then, one calloused hand extended for a shake. When she took the hand with her good one, his grip was so tight it was almost painful. 'It's good to meet you, newblood. The name's Skjor.'

'Well met. My name is Merrin.' She felt like she was being measured; in a very real way, she probably was. The old warrior was staring at her hard with his good eye, which was a steely grey very similar to Kodlak's. All the amusement was gone from his face, and a tense moment passed as he analyzed her.

But he must have been satisfied with whatever he saw, because he nodded once and let her hand go, and a wry smile softened his serious features.

'Well met. How are you settling in so far?'

'Haven't actually had much time to _settle_ ,' she replied honestly. 'It's a lot to take in. And not everyone has been so welcoming as you two.' Her thoughts flashed back to Vilkas, and her brown eyes flickered with irritation.

'You mean Vilkas.' It wasn't a question, and when she nodded stiffly, he barked out another laugh.

'Don't pay that boy any mind—he got what was comin' to him.' He looked past her then, looking instead to Aela. 'Never did learn how to lose with grace, did he?'

'That's a fact.' Aela pursed her lips, but there was amusement in her eyes. 'No matter. A broken wrist will curb that damned pride of his—for a day or so, anyway.'

 _Broken?_ She wasn't a sadistic person, but the ass had done nothing but piss her off since she'd walked into Jorrvaskr, and hearing that she'd done some real damage had her mouth tugging up at the corners, as the man beside her laughed some more.

 _Raw, with no seasoning._

'But tell me.' Aela's green eyes were fixed on her, assessing her again. 'Do you think you could best Vilkas in a _real_ fight?'

 _Hell, yes._ At Aela's words, images of pummeling the ignorant Nord into the ground had Merrin's hands clenching; she had no doubt that if it came to that, she would come out on top. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so—but after a moment, she reeled herself in. Two sets of eyes were watching her expectantly, and she didn't want to come off as a braggart.

'I'm not one for boasting,' she finally said evenly.

Aela nodded neatly, as if her suspicions had been confirmed.

'Finally—a woman who lets her actions speak for her.' Suddenly, she gave a sly smile. 'I knew there was something I liked about you.'

She wasn't sure how to reply to that, so she just kept quiet and nodded.

Aela must've taken her silence for weariness, because she suddenly shook her head, and came up looking business-like again. 'Oh, but what am I thinking? You must be tired.' She gestured out the door, back the way Merrin had come.

'Come with me, and I'll show you where all the newbloods sleep. It's still pretty early in the day, but it'll give you a chance to put away your things.'

Aela moved in a way that was brisk and efficient; after a nodded farewell from Skjor, Merrin found herself being walked back down the hallway.

At first they were both silent, but then Aela spoke, the words coming out slow and thoughtful.

'I have to say...I'm a bit surprised that you're really here.'

The words caught Merrin off-guard, and before she could stop herself, she snorted. 'So am I.'

'It's just...' Aela paused, started up again. 'When I first saw you outside the city, you looked so purposeful. Like you already had a reason for coming, and I know it wasn't us—you said as much yourself. We don't usually get people that already have established lives of their own. We get drifters, dreamers...' Another pause. 'People who's old lives have fallen apart.'

She didn't like the turn the conversation had taken, and she stared warily at Aela from the corner of her eye.

'Is it safe to say that _you_ fall into one of those categories?' She'd clearly arrived at the point she was making, and turned her head to fix Merrin with bright green eyes as she waited for an answer.

Merrin's voice came out tight and guarded. 'I guess you could say it was something like that.'

She was thinking of the circumstances that had led her here, and they weren't things she was comfortable discussing; Dalan Dufont, the Imperial ambush...nearly being executed...the ruin of Helgen. Not knowing if everything she'd worked for for the last four years had gone up in smoke shortly after that village.

Aela seemed to be much more forward than the average woman; Merrin could tell that she saw her discomfort, and yet she didn't bluster or rush to apologize. She only gave her a measured look, calm, before she shook her head, red tresses swaying.

'It is not my place to ask you such things. We need not discuss it, if that is your wish.'

In a strange way, her attitude garnered Merrin's respect; maybe because she operated much the same way. Taking a breath, she forced herself to relax.

'You did nothing wrong,' she told her. 'In time, I might tell you the story.'

Aela's response was to stop where she stood, nodding her head to Merrin's right. 'Here we are. This is your stop.'

They were standing in front of the first door by the stairs—where she'd stood with the shield not too long ago. The door was carved to depict elegant spring flowers and winding cords of knotted rope, and the border was tinted the same pale blue that seemed to carry throughout the city. She could hear several loud voices from inside the room—a couple of which she recognized—shouting back and forth.

She stood there just staring at the door, as if it might be hostile, and after a moment Aela noticed.

'Nervous, are we?' She arched one tapered brow.

Merrin grimaced. 'Not _nervous_. It's just...I can't remember the last time I've had to introduce myself so many times in one day.'

Aela laughed. 'Don't worry, newblood. I'll come with you, and tell you who's who. No point in just throwing you to the wolves. But first.' She turned to face her, and raised one pale and elegant hand to grip Merrin's shoulder—thankfully, the uninjured one. Her fey eyes were warm as she tilted her chin.

'I want to be the first to say it formally. Welcome to the Companions...Shield-Sister.'

 **A/N: Do you usually skip top notes? Go back and read the ones in this chapter for some fun news!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: A few things, before reading on. I'd like to thank all of my readers for reading my story, and especially all of my original readers who have come this far, for being patient. I don't want to make excuses - suffice it to say that I am currently much, much busier in my day to day life than I'd like to be. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.**

 **As you've all noticed, this chapter is MASSIVE. It's bigger than anything I've ever done before for a single chapter, and I don't know that I'll ever make another chapter its size. I thought long and hard about splitting it into two, but I ultimately decided that this is the format I wanted; it's dialogue heavy, so if that isn't your thing, apologies. But it lays a lot of groundwork for future plot and relationships, so I think this is the best way.**

 **Enjoy! I'll be updating again as soon as possible, and, as always, feel free to let me know what you think! Your opinions are always valued.**

Merrin woke suddenly – as if sleep had barely been holding her under – in an unfamiliar, somewhat lumpy bed. Darkness surrounded her, black as pitch, and for several moments, she didn't know where she was...again.

Then she moved just a couple of inches, and the dull, residual ache in her shoulder reminded her.

She laid still for several seconds, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness; at some point in the night, all the sconces and candles must've been snuffed. Now that she was awake and alert, she could hear the breathing and soft snores of the other people in the room with her—the other new recruits.

As she laid there, the relative silence was suddenly pierced by the angry growling of her stomach, and she sighed.

She'd fallen asleep without any dinner, and now she was _really_ starving. She needed to slip upstairs and find some breakfast—but _without_ waking anyone up.

The outlines of shapes had started to take form around her, and after another minute, she felt confident enough.

She grabbed the quilt draped over her with one hand and peeled it back and away, gingerly rising to a sitting position. She couldn't see the quilt in the dark, but she knew from the night before that it was a faded green, with small white flowers embroidered along the edges.

Her other hand slipped beneath the pillow she'd slept on, fingers groping along the sheet until they grabbed what she was after—her brown cotton breeches. Freeing her legs completely from the quilt, she eased herself as quietly as possible to the side of the bed, setting down her feet so that they touched the cold flagstone. Doing her best not to make a sound, she shook out the breeches and pulled them on, slipping them up over her smallcloth and lacing them.

She knew better than to hope to find her socks; it would be impossible, in the dark. So she scooted down to the foot of the bed, and felt around with her toes for her scavenged boots—slowly, so she didn't knock one over. When she finally felt the cool brush of leather, she bit off another sigh and eased her feet into them, lacing them quickly as well. She didn't dare to bother with armor—she wouldn't need it anyway, for now. With nothing left to do, she stood, tucking her tunic into her pants.

Now came the hard part. She'd ended up choosing the bed in the far left corner of the room, and she'd have to make it to the centre to find the door. In that spanse, she had to keep from making noise, or tripping and falling onto someone in their bed. Biting her lip, she edged forward to her right.

It was nerve wracking; she'd only ever seen this room once, and it was hard to traverse what you didn't know. She walked slowly, agonizingly slowly, so she wouldn't stub a toe or bash a shin, and four different times, she bumped gently into something and had to alter her course. She had her arms spread out with her hands outstretched, so she wouldn't walk into anything, and when she was most of the way across the room, her left hand grazed someone's bent and blanketed knee. She hadn't been expecting the touch, and winced as she yanked her hand back, waiting. But the owner of the knee didn't stir.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally braced a palm against the wood of the door, and she grabbed an iron handle with eager fingers.

Outside, the hallway was a stark and blessed change; it was just as brightly lit as when she'd gotten there, and so she could see just fine. She closed the door behind her silently, and then sagged with relief against the wood.

The whole procedure must have taken her ten minutes—it had felt like much more. In the torch-lit hall, she let out a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding, and then had to force her jaw to unclench.

As she stood there sucking in a fresh lungful, she felt like laughing at herself. Who else would take something so simple so seriously? But in the end, she wouldn't have done it differently. She was newest of the new, here—today would be her first official day. Who would want to be the newcomer that tripped over a breastplate in the dark and went crashing into a sleeping bunkmate on their _first day_? Nobody. And especially not her. She preferred to leave accidents for when she was better known...they tended to shape you less, that way.

Her stomach broke her train of thought then, with a painful growl even louder than the first.

'Alright, alright. Jeez,' Merrin muttered. Cupping her mutinous gut with one hand, she scanned her surroundings for anything to eat. Would the kitchen be fired for the day yet? She doubted it, and then got overtaken by a huge, sudden yawn. What time was it, anyway? Without a window, she had no way of knowing.

She was about to head upstairs when a plate caught her eye. It was sitting on a side table in a small communal lounging area next to the door of the bunk—and it had a single creme treat on it.

 _Yes!_ In two bounding strides, she had the creme treat in her hand, and was eagerly taking the first huge bite. It didn't really occur to her that the dessert could belong to somebody else, and she didn't care that it was a bit stale; it was sustenance, plain and simple, and she sank into the nearest chair as she wolfed it down.

It was quiet in the hall, the only sounds belonging to her, and it soothed away the nervous tension she'd carried with her from the sleeping chamber. As she ate, the quiet gave her time to think, and she reflected on how the night before had unfolded.

When Aela had pushed open those doors and led her inside, it had only taken a second for the raucous shouting to stop, and then all eyes were on her.

The Dunmer named Athis had been laying in a bed ahead of her and to her right, back propped up against several thick pillows, body covered by a worn red quilt. The man named Torvar sat on the floor, back against a wardrobe beside the bed, elbows rested on knees, and the Imperial woman who's name she didn't know sat perched on the foot of Athis' bed.

They'd all stared at her with great interest, and it had taken her a second to realize that there was a sixth person in the room; sitting in a wooden chair against the far left wall, the Nord named Njada scowled at her as she tugged on a pair of leather boots.

'Listen up, whelps.' As always, Aela's voice came out strong, and Merrin had dropped Njada's hostile gaze to look at the red-head instead.

'Today, new blood joins our ranks. Let's have a round of introductions, to start things off.'

And so, there'd been a round of introductions. She'd announced her name for the fifth time that day, nodding politely at the group in front of her.

Torvar had been the first to greet her; he'd pulled himself to standing with a bit of difficulty (undoubtedly caused by the empty bottles at his feet) and had taken her hand as if she were a lady at court, bowing low over it before coming up with a grin. 'So very well met, ma'am. My name is Torvar. I think we'll be good friends in no time a'tall.'

He'd been pungent, but harmless, and she'd smiled good-naturedly as he leaned back against the wardrobe. 'We'll have to see. Well met.'

Athis had introduced himself next, and then grimaced. 'I'm afraid I can't make to shake your hand, though. I'll be stuck in this bed for a day or so.'

She'd witnessed the brawl he'd lost, and she'd nodded as she came forward so they could shake, giving him her practical observation.

'That's probably for the best, after the hit you took.'

Torvar had laughed at that for some reason, but Athis had only nodded grimly, dark red eyes looking her over. She'd released his hand then, and taken a step back.

Before anyone had a chance to continue, the woman named Njada had stalked across the room, and gotten right in Merrin's face—or had done her best to, being nearly a head shorter.

'Here's all you need to know about me,' the pale-haired woman had hissed. 'I'm not here to make friends. I'm not here to play nice. If you stay out of my way, things will work out fine.' She'd narrowed her eyes in a glare then; strange, tawny eyes with golden flecks. 'Give me any trouble? You'll regret it.' Then she'd stormed past the two women in the doorway, bumping hard into Merrin's shoulder as she left, and slammed the door to the upper levels behind her.

There'd been a moment of awkward silence in the room where Merrin had hissed out a harsh breath; Njada had bumped into her _injured_ shoulder. Aela had stared at the door to the mead hall, mouth firmed with disapproval. Then the Imperial woman had spoken up, smiling apologetically.

'Um...sorry about that. That was Njada. She can be...prickly, before she gets to know you.'

'Prickly?' Torvar had interjected, and laughed. 'More like barbed. Let's just say the Stonearm doesn't have many friends.'

After a moment, her anger started to fade, and Merrin shrugged as she rubbed at her sore shoulder. 'Not everyone's interested in being friendly.'

'Well, the three of us _are_.' The Imperial woman had stood up then, reaching out a hand to shake. 'My name is Ria Mellius, and I'm pleased to meet you.'

The pretty brunette's hand had been warm when it squeezed hers, and she'd stared at Merrin with large dark eyes, done up in a smokey red that matched her lips perfectly. When she'd smiled, it had seemed genuine. 'If you need help with anything, don't hesitate to ask one of us.'

The offer had warmed Merrin, and she'd muttered her thanks.

After that, Aela had turned to her and thrown her another playful smile. 'I'd say that my work here is finished, for now. So if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to settle in. I have a hunt to make preparations for. If you need anything...' She'd tossed her head at the others. 'You know who to ask.'

And then she'd swept through the wooden doors, graceful as a stalking cat.

Merrin shook off the memories of the night before, and reined herself back into the present moment.

She had polished off the creme treat while she sat there thinking, and while it would hold her over for a while, she was far from satisfied—she needed to look for something else.

She should go upstairs and check the kitchen for something. She barely knew Tilma, but she'd seemed _more_ than kind enough. Surely, she wouldn't mind if Merrin crept in and took something small.

Mind made up, she got out of the chair and headed toward the twin set of doors, running her fingers through her hair as she went, to make it presentable—or try to, at least.

Once again, she moved quiet as a mouse, not wanting to wake anyone with the door, and she was soundless as she made her way up the stairs to the mead hall. She could already tell it was still _early_ morning; there wasn't a sound above her, and the light filtering through the windows was pale and young, so that the hall was still shadowy.

She'd only taken a couple of steps when she saw something that made her stop in her tracks.

Not something. Some _one_. Standing tall and broad at the long oaken table, great sword strapped to his armored back—it was the man she'd met outside of Whiterun, with the easy laugh and the deep blue eyes.

She'd been silent in her unknowing approach, and he hadn't noticed her. He was standing with his great back to her, staring into the fire.

From where she stood, she could see that his armor was scuffed and dirty, his boots splashed with mud. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, black in the fire's silhouette, and lank as if from many days on the road. Was that why she hadn't seen him? Had he only just gotten here?

As if he could sense her presence or her questions, the big Nord suddenly turned around, and his gaze latched onto her instantly. Instinctively, her hand tightened around the stair's banister.

She could see that he looked tired; smeared warpaint couldn't hide bags under his eyes, and several day's neglect had turned the stubble he'd sported when she first saw him into the beginnings of a beard. But his eyes lit up as he recognized her, and a boyish grin broke over his face.

'Hey, it's you! The girl in the field.'

When he spoke, his voice was deep and easy, like she'd remembered, and he sounded enthusiastic. Instantly, she was glad to see him, and she let her hand fall as she smiled back at him. She answered in muted tones, still cautious of the people sleeping below her.

'Not in the field anymore.'

He chuckled appreciatively. 'So you decided to come after all?' Blue eyes swept her over as he took in her appearance, and he nodded, seeming satisfied. 'If you're here at this hour, that means Kodlak must've liked you.'

She shrugged. 'I guess so.' She had no way of knowing—his words had only just made her realize that she hadn't actually spoken to the Harbinger since she'd left his study with Vilkas.

And like ripples in a pond, that realization triggered another one; she had no idea what Vilkas had said about her, when he'd reported back to Kodlak—she wasn't even sure that he'd really _given_ a report. Thinking of Vilkas stirred yesterday's anger, and her smile faded as she met his gaze again.

'I haven't had the chance to speak with him again. But they gave me a bed to sleep in, and I'm already being ordered around.' She crinkled her nose as she said the words. 'So I guess that means I'm in.'

A look of comprehension dawned on his face as he took in her sour expression, and he chuckled again, irking her some more.

'Ordered around? Sounds like you've already met Vilkas, then.' He leaned a hip against the table, eyes shining with amusement as he looked at her.

'Unfortunately.' She knew it was rude, but it was too early to care. 'He was the one who tested my arm.' She crossed her arms in front of her chest. 'He looks a lot like you.'

'He should.' Another grin. 'Being my twin, and all.'

 _Oh, shit._ Instantly, she wanted to hit herself, and she had to bite back a curse; how could she have been so stupid? How could she miss something so obvious? Her anger swelled at her own stupidity, and she scowled. She'd already put her foot in her mouth, but embarrassment had words cramming up in her throat. Before she could rein herself in, they spilled from her.

'Are you _serious_? You're related to _Vilkas? Twins?_ How is that possible?' She snorted, eyes narrowed at him. 'You seem like a reasonable person. He's been nothing but—'

'An ass.' He finished the thought for her smoothly; when she pulled her head back in surprise, he was still smiling.

'Yeah,' he said calmly. 'That's my brother.'

She was wary now as she eyed him; embarrassed at her foolish blunder, but not about to apologize, either. She tipped her chin up obstinately. 'Then maybe appearances can be deceiving. You're his twin. How do I know _you're_ not an ass, too?'

She didn't know what kind of answer to expect, but he just shrugged, good-naturedly, flashing his smile at her again.

'Sometimes I can be. But not for the most part. Mostly, I guess I'm what you'd call the 'good twin'.'

He seemed genuine—not trying to boast, or preen. So after a moment, she relented. Then huffed. 'No doubts about what that makes Vilkas.'

The big man in front of her didn't seem to take the slightest offense at her attitude towards his flesh and blood; on the contrary, he laughed, and his blue eyes flickered appreciatively.

'Vilkas...is a good man. I swear,' he insisted over another snort from her. 'He just takes longer to come around to new people. Always has. He's quick to anger and slow to trust. But, if you show yourself to be honorable, he'll warm to you eventually. I'm sure of it.'

His face was eager when he spoke, his blue eyes genuine, and there was a simple and obvious love for his brother in his words. She took in the sight of him for one long moment, and then she softened; some of her prickly resentment faded.

She knew how it was, to be quick to anger.

'We'll see,' she said slowly, letting her arms uncross and fall back to her sides. 'He made it obvious that he didn't think I could make it among you. I'm surprised he agreed to even test my arm.'

He nodded though, seeming completely unsurprised. 'We all respect Kodlak a lot. Pretty much anything he asks of us, we do.' He was silent for a second, and then a thought obviously occurred to him; a line appeared between his thick brows, and he looked her over anew.

'But if Vilkas tested your arm, I know for sure that you're tired and sore today. What has you up so _early_?'

She grimaced. 'I'm sore,' she conceded. 'But not tired. And I'm up because my traitor of a stomach _forced_ me up. I feel like I could eat a horker.'

He chuckled in response, and she narrowed her eyes at him. 'I could ask you the same question, you know. Why are _you_ up so early?'

'Because _I_ just got here,' he replied simply. He gestured carelessly to the seat beside him, and she saw a huge knapsack dumped there, with a used-looking bedroll tied to the bottom. When she looked back at him, he was drinking deeply from an earthenware mug she hadn't noticed in his hand.

'You've been on the road?' The explanation settled her, for some reason.

 _That must be why he wasn't around when I got here._

'Yep,' he responded, popping the 'p' and nodding once. 'Had a job in Rorikstead that needed doing. Bandits.' He flashed her a fierce smile then, one that reminded her of Aela.

'They won't be banditing anymore. Finished the job, and came straight home—didn't bother setting up camp. I got here about a quarter hour ago.'

She was opening her mouth to reply, when her stomach growled again—long and insistent, the sound travelling through the room.

She wasn't embarrassed, but she _was_ annoyed, and this time she let a curse slip out as she brought a hand to her flat, empty stomach.

'Oh, ah...I can help you with that.'

Merrin looked back up at the man in front of her. He wasn't looking at her now; instead, he was rummaging through the rucksack he'd set aside. But he beckoned to her with his other hand.

Hesitantly, she took a step forward. 'You don't need to do that. I was going to look for something in the kitchen. I don't want to inconvenience.'

'You're not,' he replied easily. 'Least not yet.' He spared her a glance from his rummaging, and his eyes were dancing. 'But if you go in that kitchen, I can't protect you. Tilma's as sweet as spun sugar—as long as you don't mess with her larder. Go in without her say so, and all bets are off.'

He'd spoken plainly this whole time, and she had no reason to believe he was exaggerating now. She put a hand on her hip and lifted a brow.

 _Huh._ 'That a fact? Thanks for the warning, then, I guess.'

'Much safer to just accept my gracious hospitality.' He straightened up then with a linen bundle in his hand, and a hokey grin on his face.

At the sight of that grin, her feelings warmed—her initial liking for him grew. She took another step closer, and hit him with a smile of her own.

'Well then, let's see what you've got.'

He unwrapped the linen to reveal half a loaf of brown bread, a red and yellow apple, and several strips of some sort of dried meat.

There were still several strides between them, but at the sight of the food, her stomach urged her forward. She shot him quick thanks, and reached for one of the strips of meat.

'Hold on, hold on. Wait a second.' She'd been about to grab a strip when one of his large hands closed loosely around her wrist.

Normally she would tense, even jerk away; he seemed genuinely kind, and she was definitely starting to like him, but the man was still a virtual stranger.

But she didn't do either of those things. His grip was warm, and so was his voice. When she looked up to stare at him questioningly, there was no hint of a threat in his features. He was looking at her with interest, his eyes still twinkling with mirth.

'I think we're forgetting something,' he told her.

She only stared at him, confused.

'Names!' He chuckled. 'Any woman going to eat the last of my favorite jerky, I'd like to know her name first.'

It was so unexpected, she laughed; a loose, whooping laugh from her gut, that made her shoulders shake. He seemed delighted by this laughter, and joined with some of his own; she was surprised when the sound made her heart jump in her chest.

It was easy to laugh with him, even not knowing him, and it took her a few moments to settle down. When she looked back up at him with her head cocked to the side, she was still smiling. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered at it. _How different, her reaction to this twin!_

'It's Merrin. My name is Merrin.'

'Merrin.' He tried the name out for himself, and his gaze went somewhat soft and considering as he looked at her, like he was really thinking about it.

'I like that,' he announced after moments of staring. 'It suits you. Merrin.'

His voice was almost tender when he said her name, and her stomach gave a little jump.

'Oh, yeah? Is that so?'

He nodded, eyes still searching hers. 'Yep. It's a pretty name. Down to earth. Makes me think of a deep green forest.'

The words jolted her a bit; they were similar to something she'd heard all her life, and an image of home came flashing unbidden to the front of her mind. An image of tall, green trees. Her stomach lurched again, stronger this time.

'It's good to meet you, Merrin. My name is Farkas.' His hand slid then from her wrist to link with hers, and they exchanged a firm handshake.

When had they gotten so _close_? The distance that had separated them to start was gone, and now so was the distance that usually separated strangers; she could _smell_ him, both the various smells of travel clinging to his clothes and armor, and the actual musk of the man beneath. She could feel the heat of his body. All her life, she had been tall, but the man in front of her was so abnormally large that he was still nearly a head above her, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

The fire was still the main source of light in the room, and the orange light flickered playfully over the planes and valleys of his face, turning his blue eyes a curious color. She couldn't ignore what a good face it was.

His eyes had left hers, and now they were resting on other parts of her; her cheek, her mouth, her nose. Suddenly, he smiled again.

'You have freckles.' He sounded delighted. 'Here..' he lifted his other hand, and traced a finger delicately over her skin, across the bridge of her nose, along the ridge of her cheekbones, seeming fascinated. 'And here. I never noticed, out in the field.' The smile widened into a grin. 'They're cute.'

She wasn't breathing anymore; the breath had caught in her throat. Her pulse had started to hammer. He had surprised her into freezing—now all she could feel were his fingers, and his gaze.

For a moment, she hung that way, suspended.

Then she shook herself mentally, blinking once, twice. _What are you doing?_ She asked herself. _What is this?_ She didn't normally react this way to being touched—and definitely not by strangers. It was time to gain some distance.

She decided to try for humor, and smirked, taking one tiny step away before she spoke.

'Farkas? Hmm. That's a pretty name, too. Makes me think of...really big guys with extra strips of jerky.'

He startled at her words, and then laughed. The loud sound in the quiet room seemed to break the spell; both of them took a step away, and their hands that had still been clasped together came falling easily apart. He braced his on the table instead, and when he looked back up at her, his face was torn. He looked both amused, and bashful. Two spots of color rode high on his prominent cheekbones, just like the ones she'd seen on his brother. But the similarities ended there.

'Oh,' he groaned, on a tapering laugh. 'Oh, you're funny. I like that.' He reached a hand around to cup the back of his neck, and lowered his gaze. 'Sorry for poking at your face like that.'

The strange tension between them had broken, and it relieved her; she bulled determinedly through the remaining wisps of it, and smiled broadly. 'No harm, no foul.' She pointed at the table. 'As long as I get the jerky now.'

* * *

Things moved along more easily after that. Farkas pulled a chair out for her to sit on, and pushed the food in front of her when she sat, and they talked of lighter things; it was as if nothing strange had happened between them at all.

'I'd offer to fix you up some raana, but this was the last of what I had.' He gestured towards his half-empty mug, and sounded apologetic.

Merrin stared longingly at the cup of dark liquid. Raana was grown and shipped from Hammerfell; part tea-leaf, part ground bean, and now popular across most of Tamriel. If brewed in hot water, it made a stimulating drink with a strong aroma, and was good for a boost if a person was tired.

She'd developed a taste for it in Morrowind; she didn't add milk, like some people did, but she liked it with plenty of sugar. And a cup right then would be more than welcome.

But she only smiled and shook her head, and told him not to worry about it.

The jerky turned out to be good, and as she worked on a big piece, he asked her questions.

Merrin found him as easy to talk to as his brother was difficult; he smiled often and laughed easily. She could see he was tired—he yawned hugely more than once—but he obviously _wanted_ to be sitting there. It was plain when she talked that he was really listening.

When she told him about Eorlund's offer, he nodded at her, looking pleased.

'That's good. If you have the skill, Eorlund will teach you some valuable stuff. I still remember everything he taught _me_.'

'You're...a smith, too?' She looked at him with undisguised interest. He had a powerful body, and when she gave it a thought, the idea didn't surprise her.

Farkas chuckled. 'Now and then, in my spare time. I like the craft, but Eorlund doesn't have much patience with me. Maybe you'll fare better.'

She could only shrug. 'I hope so.'

As if he sensed her reticence, he changed the subject, expression turning sage. 'So, you stayed the night. That means you must've met most everyone. How'd you get along with the other whelps?'

Instantly, she drew up short, and looked at him narrowly. 'Not you, too,' she muttered, accusatory.

He looked at her, confused. 'Not me too what?'

' _Whelps',_ she grumbled. 'So pointlessly rude. Why do you need to call us that?'

He tilted his head to stare at her strangely, and she thought she saw something like admiration flash in his eyes. After a long moment, a slow smile broke over his face, and he nodded. 'Alright then... _newblood_. How'd you get along with the others?'

She thought out her reply carefully. 'Torvar, Athis, and Ria were friendly. Njada...not so much.'

He snorted, and stole back a bit of jerky. 'You shouldn't take that one too personal. If you're not a member of the Circle, Njada doesn't have much use for you.'

Merrin stared at him. 'What do you mean, the Circle?' He reached for more jerky, and she swatted his hand away. 'What happened to your gracious hospitality, huh? Let a woman eat.'

He laughed at her, eyes dancing appreciatively once again. 'A spitfire! I'm so sorry, ma'am. Won't happen again.' Then he tore off a hunk of bread instead, ignoring her huff, chewing thoughtfully before he answered.

'She's looking to climb. The Circle's made up of our strongest members. If you wanna be a Circle member, you've gotta be tough.' For a second he looked like he had more to say, but then he just shook his head, and took more bread.

'Huh.' She sat there quietly, absorbing the new information, watching the first golden rays of real dawn as they crept across the floor. Her father had told her countless stories of the Companions, but he'd never once mentioned an inner circle.

Suddenly she was snapped back by a suspicious thought, and she looked over at the man beside her—more specifically, at his armor.

It was exactly as she'd expected; the breastplate was smeared with mud, but there was no mistaking that sculpted wolf.

'Wait a minute.' He looked over at the tone of her voice, mouth full of bread, and looked guilty despite not knowing if he'd done anything. It almost pulled a smile from her. Almost.

'That armor. I've been seeing it around. Does it mean something special? That...you're part of the Circle?'

He swallowed in a way that looked painful, but the guilty look had been replaced with a grin.

'Oh, this? Yeah, that's exactly what it means. Funny, _and_ smart.' He looked the armor over proudly. 'You like it?'

'It's nice,' she admitted grudgingly. But that would mean...

'So you, Skjor, Kodlak...your brother. You're all members of this Circle?'

'You're forgetting Aela.' He took a swig of cold raana to wash down his bread. 'She's a member of the Circle, too. Just doesn't wear the armor.'

It was true; every time she'd seen Aela, she'd been wearing a set of old Nordic armor—as if she'd taken it right off a Draugr. But that hadn't been her point, and she hissed in frustration.

'So your idiot brother _can_ order me around.' She ground her teeth together, fists clenched. 'Just perfect.' The anger had welled up almost instantly, and this time she didn't care what Farkas thought of her bad-mouthing his brother.

'Hey, hey.' His deep voice was soothing, pacifying, and he lifted his hands up in her direction. 'Easy. Vilkas is a lot of things, but he isn't an idiot.'

She started to cut across him with angry protests, but he continued over her in a mellow sort of way.

'And one day, when you've made a bit of a name for yourself around here, Vilkas might give you contracts, yeah. But he _can't_ just boss you around. Nobody _bosses_ anybody, in Jorrvaskr.'

She sat there for several tense moments, just breathing, hands clenched in front of her; the thought of Vilkas running her was like fire in her veins—intolerable.

But she was collected enough to realize that what Farkas had said mirrored Kodlak's earlier words: Vilkas might try, but he had no grounds to succeed. Amongst the Companions, she would be her own woman, Circle or no Circle. She latched onto that thought, solitary and comforting, and let it cool her down.

Farkas had sat wordlessly, watching her seethe, with a mild expression on his face. When she turned her face back toward his, he raised his eyebrows.

'You've got a temper on you.' It was said conversationally, as if he were commenting on the weather.

She grimaced at his observation, and let out a gusting breath. 'Always have. Can't see a day where I ever won't. And,' she added dryly, 'I can't see a day where I'll take a job from your brother.'

'It reminds me of someone else.'

She looked back at him sharply, feeling defensive, but his expression was as clear as water—no inflection to be found. She was tired of being angry, and after another second she slumped in her seat and started picking at the bread, willing herself to relax.

After a few seconds of silence, Farkas cleared his throat, and she was surprised to suddenly feel his elbow nudging her in the ribs. She looked up at him again, an irritated warning half-formulated; then she saw that he was smiling again, as if she hadn't just snapped and snarled, and the words died on her lips.

'It looks to me like you could use a distraction,' he said, cajoling. 'Something to get your mind off of...things.'

'Yeah?' She asked warily. 'What do you have in mind?'

'Well...you're going to be living in Whiterun now, right?'

Hearing him say it made it feel surreal, and she was slow to respond. 'It looks that way.'

'Do you know your way around the city? You said you haven't seen much of it.'

That was the truth. 'No, I don't.'

Farkas' face brightened, and he leaned in towards her to bump her again. 'Then how 'bout I give you the grand tour? Show you around the city? It'll help you get settled in quicker.'

Merrin looked at him, surprised again, and a smile tugged at the corners of her broad mouth. It was a sweet offer, and it had warmth blooming in her chest; he must've been exhausted from his trek back home, but he was plainly eager at the idea of showing her around—she could see it on his face.

She'd opened her mouth, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, when she suddenly remembered.

'Oh.' Her brows drew together. 'I'm sorry, Farkas. That's a sweet offer, really, and I'm grateful. But Ria offered the same last night, and I already said yes.'

The Imperial woman hadn't left her side after Aela had introduced them—she'd seemed determined to make Merrin feel welcome, and truthfully, she had. Before she'd left her to get some sleep, Ria had offered to spend the day showing her the city.

Merrin had been glad to accept, then; now she felt oddly disappointed.

For a second, she saw mirrored disappointment in his eyes, and it made her stomach lurch again. But then he smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and shook his head good-naturedly.

'Too bad, then. But I guess it's for the best—this way I can catch some shut-eye.'

She looked him over, and nodded practically, shaking off the unwanted jumpiness. 'You _do_ look tired.'

He laughed. 'Thanks. At any rate, if it's Ria showing you around, you won't be waiting much longer. She's an early bird.'

He pushed away from where he'd been leaning beside her against the table, stretched his neck until it popped, and gave both shoulders a roll. Then he picked up his mug and downed the rest of his raana, before he looked down at her.

'Hey, before I go...I know you're just getting settled and all, but would you be interested in some work? I've got a job I think you could do.'

She lifted a brow, tilted her chin. 'That depends. Does it include running around, doing your personal errands?'

Something in her eyes must've tipped him off, because he laughed again, heartily, before he shook his head.

'No...no, nothing like that. I mostly leave the over-lording to my brother.' He pursed his full lips, and shrugged. 'I mean, it still isn't glamorous. But you'd get paid.'

She sat there, considering. Her first real job...and _not_ a menial errand. Including money.

'I'm listening.'

'Thought so.' He grinned. 'I got the letter for the job a few days ago, but the bandits in Rorikstead needed dealing with. Someone needs some muscle right here in Whiterun.'

Merrin frowned. 'Oh? What for?'

'Apparently, a guy in town's been running his mouth off, throwing his weight around. Being a bully. Folks are tired of it, and someone complained who's willing to pay.' He shrugged again.

'So...' she said slowly, looking confused. 'You want me to go knock some sense into him? Is that it?'

He nodded. 'If it comes to that. But I know the guy—it probably won't. Mostly, I'd just need you to go down there and look tough. Scare the milk-drinker into submission.'

She snorted. 'I can _definitely_ handle that.'

'Attagirl.'

Suddenly, his grin faded, and was replaced with a serious expression. 'But, listen. If it goes so far as throwing some punches, make sure it _only_ goes that far. No further. I don't wanna hear about a killing down there.' He towered above her, watching her carefully. 'Got it?'

She stared back at him, just as serious. 'Do the Companions kill loudmouths often?'

He shook his head. 'Not at all. That would be terrible for business—not to mention really dishonorable.'

She'd already figured as much, and shot him a wry smile. 'Well, don't worry. You have my word. Only scaring or hitting. Nothing more.'

'Alright then.' His smile was already blooming again, all the sternness gone.

'So who is he?'

'His name's Elrindir. Bosmer barkeep at the Drunken Huntsman. He's the self-important type, probably just needs to be deflated some.'

She nodded. 'He's as good as deflated.'

'Let me know when it's done, and you'll get paid.'

A huge yawn chased the end of his sentence, and he rubbed one eye with a giant fist, further smearing the sooty kohl there.

'You should really go to bed, Farkas,' she pointed out. Half amused, and half disappointed.

'Yeah, I really should. I'm going.' Effortlessly, he reached down and hiked up his heavy pack, and slung it carelessly over one shoulder. 'Make sure you don't let that jerky go to waste.'

She patted her stomach, and smirked. 'I've got plans for it.'

Then she dropped the smirk, and eyed him seriously. 'Thanks for the breakfast. And the conversation.'

'You don't need to thank me.' His gaze was suddenly arresting, and she could see the sincerity sitting there. 'I really enjoyed meeting you. Merrin.'

Again, there it was—when he said her name, he almost sounded shy. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

For a second, they just stared at each other. Then the moment passed, and he spoke again.

'Ria shouldn't be long now. Try to enjoy yourself! This city's more than half-decent, if you can get over Heimskr.' He snorted a laugh at his own joke, and then he was walking the way she'd come, down to the living quarters.

* * *

All alone, Merrin found the empty mead hall peaceful. The sun was now rising in earnest outside, and the city was stirring awake to greet it.

The golden rays of what looked to be another fine summer day were streaming through the windows, lighting up the hall inside, and if she trained her ears, she could hear the sounds of other life—raised voices, children's laughter, the lowing of a cow.

As she crunched into the ambrosia apple, she looked again around the room. Since it was empty, and not housing a brawl, she could actually take in the details.

She liked what she saw. The red banners hanging from the lofty rafters were also embroidered with golden thread, well taken-care of, dancing in a gentle draft that made a sea of dust motes swirl through sun beams. Impressive weapons were mounted to pillars, displayed in positions of pride around the centre of the long room; a glass warhammer, an ebony great sword, a wooden bow so intricately carved and finely polished that it glowed in the firelight. Shields much bigger than the ones downstairs were hanging from intervals in a ring around the room, about ten feet up the walls, and each one was resting over two mounted spears that still looked sharp.

Everything around her looked worn, well-used, and comfortable. Furniture was past its prime, but still serviceable. And when she looked down at the floor, she noted that whatever parts weren't sturdy grey flagstone was wood that had been cared for well, with a certain lustre still clinging to the boards—except for under the chairs around the table. There, the floor was worn down, some of the wood's color stripped away—changed and moulded by hundreds of years of booted feet.

Jorrvaskr seemed to emanate both history and pride—infuse it into the very air—and she found herself sighing contentedly. The starry eyed child inside of her was finally sitting in the very hall of her dreams...it hardly seemed real.

She'd only been alone five minutes when she heard the double doors opening again, and Farkas was proven true to his word.

Ria came up the stairs and walking toward her, looking fresh and rested in simple plainclothes. Her long brown hair tumbled loose in a cascade around her, and she didn't have any warpaint on; with her thin face bare, she looked several years younger.

She smiled at Merrin as she approached, and Merrin found herself smiling back.

'Good morning!' The Imperial sounded cheerful. 'You're up early. It's usually just me and Tilma, this time of day.'

'No reason for me not to be. We all know I got enough sleep last night.'

It was nothing but the truth. After Aela had left the dormitory, it was Ria who'd put her hands on her hips and gotten down to business. With a cheerful efficiency, she had pointed Merrin towards a dresser for her to put her things into; when she'd hesitated, the woman had laughed, and reassured her that Jorrvaskr wasn't home to thieves—other than Torvar filching unguarded mead.

She'd had precious little to unpack, but the Imperial hadn't asked any questions; she'd seemed to sense that Merrin wasn't open to them. Instead, she'd offered easy conversation about life in the mead hall—how she'd settle in quick enough, as long as she didn't mind boisterous surroundings.

Torvar had eventually ambled out of the room with one last passing greeting, and Athis had ended up yanking his quilt over his head and going to sleep, but Ria had stayed by her side.

She'd even helped her pick a bed; when she'd asked if she could pick just any place to sleep, Ria had sagely shaken her head.

'I wouldn't touch that one, if I were you.' She'd pointed to a bed in the corner, with blue quilting. 'It's Njada's. She'll go berserk if you touch it, or her stuff.'

And so she'd ended up with the bed across from it, sinking gratefully onto the mattress. It hadn't been long before she'd admitted she needed rest, and it was then that Ria had offered to show her around the next day.

She'd skipped dinner, too tired to wait for it, and slept for about eighteen hours.

Now, in front of her, Ria laughed. 'That's fair. But no matter. It just means you'll be better at memorizing as we go. Are you ready?'

She looked down at the remainder of Merrin's breakfast on the table, and hummed thoughtfully.

'You're not going to want to have that food out when Tilma comes up. She might think you went and took it from the pantry!'

She took in the expression on Ria's face, and thought of the sweet, tiny lady she'd met the day before.

 _Appearances_ can _be deceiving. Yeesh._

With a quick hand, she swiped up the linen, wrapping up the food as she stood. 'I'm ready.'

* * *

The sun came down to warm the two women as they headed down the steps and away from Jorrvaskr, and a gentle breeze played through their hair. When they reached the walkway, Ria pulled up short, and put slender hands on narrow hips as she sighed with satisfaction.

'It's a beautiful city,' she said to Merrin, 'with good people in it, and plenty to do. I've found that no matter where a person comes from, Whiterun ends up growing on them.'

'How long have _you_ been here, then?'

'A little less than six months,' Ria answered, a bit ruefully. 'But in that time, it's become my home. And the Companions have become my family.' The smile she gave was heartfelt and warm, and it gave Merrin a pang to stare at it.

'So, where should we go first, then?'

The Imperial's face brightened. 'Oh, if I'm giving you the tour, we've _got_ to start at the Skyforge. It's famous across Skyrim, across Tamriel, and it's right in our backyard—our mysterious claim to fame.' At this last, she wiggled her dark brows dramatically and grinned.

'Ah...' Merrin cleared her throat, feeling guilty. 'Actually, I already saw it, yesterday. And talked to Eorlund. You know...errands,' she finished, somewhat lamely.

Ria pursed her lips, but only for a second, and then she was readjusting her plan. 'Alright, then. In that case, why don't we just start from the top and work our way down? That way, we don't miss anything. If you already know about a place, then just tell me and we can skip over it.'

'That sounds good to me.'

And so they set off, with Ria one step ahead to lead the way. When they reached the bottom of the stone steps, the first thing she did was point up to Dragonsreach, in the Cloud District.

'No no, that's alright,' Merrin cut in before the other woman could start. 'I've already seen Dragonsreach, _and_ met Balgruuf. I've had enough of both for the foreseeable future.'

Ria smiled in a knowing sort of way. 'Not a fan of the courts?'

Merrin snorted. 'To put it mildly.'

'That's alright. They _can_ be pretty—'

'You two, standing over there! Tell me—are _you_ true daughters of Skyrim? Will _you_ come and listen to the words of the mighty Talos?!'

It was the priest of Talos who had suddenly addressed them, yelling across the circular stone courtyard; they'd been talking all along over his shouted sermon, minding their own business. But now he'd lowered the hood of his terracotta robes, and was stretching out a beseeching hand as he stared the two of them down directly.

For a moment, Merrin didn't move. Then she turned to her companion, and raised an eyebrow.

'I've been wondering since I came to the city...what's the deal with the priest?'

Ria chuckled at her. 'That's just Heimskr. He takes his sermons seriously, for sure. But he's harmless.'

When they hadn't immediately answered his call, the priest had gone back to his preaching; he squinted directly into the rising sun, and had both arms flung out in supplication. Behind him stood a carved statue of Talos himself; massive and stoic in his winged helmet, stony face impassive as he stared down at the courtyard and rested huge hands on the pommel of his sword.

As far as Merrin could see, only two people were actually paying Heimskr any mind; a shrivelled old woman with a tightly tied bonnet, and a Redguard man in tattered rags. Everyone else in the Wind District was either artfully ignoring him, or rushing by.

'But isn't what he's doing illegal?' She asked, doubtfully. 'The Empire signed the Concordat a _long_ time ago. Worship of Talos is strictly banned—and this man is singing his praises in the streets.'

Ria shrugged. 'Entirely illegal. You're right.'

Merrin stared at the woman, exasperated. 'Isn't he in danger, then? Why has no one stopped him?' She turned to look at the priest again; he'd fallen to his knees on the stone of the courtyard, and his face upturned to the morning sun was gleaming with sweat as he continued his impassioned wailing.

'Because...' Ria's voice had softened, and so had her face. 'The Dominion can outlaw worship, but they can't _really_ control what people believe. And Balgruuf knows that. He remains impartial in the civil war, and well...we don't have a strong Thalmor presence here.' She shrugged again, eyeing Heimskr with obvious sympathy. 'Most people just ignore him. I'd say, so long as he isn't hurting anybody, there's no point in taking it away from him. He cares about it too much.'

There was something about Ria's words that comforted her. She'd lived a long time in Morrowind—a place native to another race, _and_ firmly in cooperation with the Empire. Back in Morrowind, there'd been no civil war, even on the frontier. Nobody worshipped Talos, as far as she knew, and nobody was bothered by the loss. Truth be told, she hadn't been particularly bothered, either; Talos held no special place in her heart, even being a Nord.

But he'd been special to her father; until he'd died, there'd been a tiny shrine to Talos in his bedroom, the below-ground level of their home. He'd kept it hidden in his armoire...but countless times, she'd crept down the stairs to see him, and would find him kneeling in prayer at the shrine, a single candle lit.

Her father's love for Talos had been a secret they kept—like others in their village, and countless others in their province. And it had always bothered her, on some level, that her father couldn't pray under the open sun, unafraid. It soothed her to see even one man in this city, being openly devoted to his god. Even if his yelling _did_ make her flinch sometimes.

Ria put a hand on her arm then, jerking her from her thoughts, and tipped her head to their right.

'Come on. I'll walk you around, show you what's what and who's who.'

Merrin nodded, and as they started across the courtyard, Heimskr's sonorous voice followed them for as long as it could.

'But you were once man! Aye! And as man, you said, "Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown—born of the North—for my breath is long winter!"'

* * *

Thanks to Ria's help, she discovered that the Wind District was home to most of the more affluent families in Whiterun; as they strolled down paths of cobblestone worn smooth, she would point a long finger at a big, stately house with carved lintels over its double doors, with a roof made of cedar shakes baking in the sun, and tell her about who lived there.

'This isn't actually a house. It's our Hall of the Dead. You probably won't be seeing much of it,' Ria said with a wink. 'The priest of Arkay who lives there is nice enough, but personally, the place gives me the creeps. And over here,' she pointed, across the way, 'is the home of Clan Battle-Born.'

'The entire Clan?' It was a _big_ house, impressively built, sitting on a small hill so it was higher than most others, with a circular stone patio that had its own central fire pit. Even now, it was lit, and the heat of the flames shimmered in the warm summer air.

Ria snorted. 'No. Family is too big for that. But it's pretty extensive—about eight people in all, under that roof. Olfrid is the patriarch, and then you've got his wife, their children and _those_ wives, and a grandson. Sweet kid, named Lars.' She turned to Merrin, and rolled dark brown eyes.

'As far as things go, they're a pretty important family around here. Big money, big lineage, big influence. But between you and me, they're sort of uppity, too. And Olfrid has proven himself to be a real blowhard.'

Merrin looked back at the house, and grimaced. 'I'll try to keep that in mind.'

And it kept up that way; Ria pointing, Merrin listening, learning things that she could only learn from a local.

'This place gets rented by a couple of Redguards named Amren and Saffir—nice people. But their daughter reminds me of Njada sometimes.'

'This house belongs to a woman named Uthgerd, but you'll hardly find her here. She likes it at the Bannered Mare. Careful, though, she's a real hothead. Calls herself The Unbreakable.'

'That house on the end down there gets rented out by an Imperial woman, name of Carlotta Valentia. She runs the produce stand down in the market. I try to buy from her as often as I can...she has a hard go of it, mostly. She's on her own, and is taking care of a daughter. Mila is such a _sweet_ little thing...'

They came around to another big house, and Ria stopped in front of it, smiling. 'Now _this_ ,' she gestured grandly, 'is the home of our Eorlund Gray-Mane and his kin. Wife Fralia, two sons, and a daughter. No grandchildren yet.' For a second, her expression darkened, but then she shook her head. 'They're good people, and I'm glad to know them. Stubborn as mules, though.'

Out of all the houses they'd passed so far, House Gray-Mane was Merrin's favorite; it had clearly been built a _long_ time ago, and it stood in the sunshine with a sort of shabby elegance that time had done little to erase. Two wooden pillars flanking the silvered oaken doors had been carved into griffins in the old Nordic style, with ruffled plumage and long, carved beaks, claws lashing out at any visitors approaching. The eaves of the roof had fanciful gables, and the walls of the entire house had been washed in a pale grey paint—so that the house lived up to its name.

The house had a gated back yard, and inside was the source of the lowing she'd heard. A single shaggy brown heifer stared at her over the wooden fence with large, gentle eyes, munching cud and absently swatting at flies with her tail. She wasn't the yard's only occupant; a creamy-colored goat with a bell around its neck made discordant jingling noises as it searched for the perfect tuft of grass, and a plucky looking mule stood farther away still, dapple coat gleaming in the light of the sun, long ears standing at attention as he looked at her intelligently.

A small stable was sitting up against the back wall of the house, just one stall for each of the three animals, and her nose caught the sweet scent of hay baking in the sun. Crates of feed and sacks of grain sat leaning against the wooden walls, and as she stared, a fluffy white chicken came strutting from a stall, ruffling its feathers as it pecked at the ground.

The animals delighted her even more than the house, and she turned to look at Ria with sparkling eyes.

'They have livestock! How is it they're allowed to keep them in the city?' In all her travel, the sight was still rare; by and large, if a family had animals, they kept them on a farm. Cautiously, she reached a hand out to the heifer, and when she didn't protest, she started gently rubbing the space between her eyes.

Ria smiled at her enthusiasm. 'Normally, it _wouldn't_ be allowed. But a couple shops in the Plains District buy the milk from Odeth and Freya—the cow and the goat.' She laughed. 'And the Gray-Manes are the oldest family in Whiterun—they were the first to settle permanently, after the Companions. So they tend to get away with things, being a pillar of the community.'

All of a sudden, she looked disgruntled, and her smile disappeared. 'That's not to say they don't put up with anything. The Battle-Borns give them a hard time in particular. "Nothing but meddlesome, smelly beasts", to hear Olfrid Battle-Born tell it.' She wrinkled her nose. 'And that's nothing compared to what he says about the _people_.'

Merrin found herself already taking sides; irritated, she looked away from Odeth, and back to her guide.

'Why would they be so openly disrespectful, of another important House? Do the two not get along?' Suddenly, she remembered the morning she'd first walked into the city, and passing by a burly blond man who'd had an obvious problem with Eorlund.

Ria raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug, and sighed, looking upset.

'It's sad, really. From what I was told, the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns used to be the best of friends.'

 _That_ news surprised her. 'And what happened?'

Ria replied simply. 'The war happened. When Ulfric started his rebellion, the two families took different sides. The Battle-Borns are loyal to the Empire; the Gray-Manes think Ulfric has the right idea. They can barely stand the sight of each other ever since.'

'That _is_ sad.' But it was nothing new; since she'd been a child, she'd seen the alienating effects of the war nearly anywhere she went.

Ria nodded, but then gave her a small, optimistic smile. 'There's never any harm in hoping it'll change, though.'

From House Gray-Mane, they continued on, circling back to the courtyard they'd started in, and Ria filled her in about the things they'd passed over; a Temple to Kynareth, with its own bridge across the man-made stream, where the sick went to be healed, and where most women in the city chose to birth their children. Across the way, she pointed out a humble home, hardly more than a shack, where Heimskr apparently lived when he wasn't giving passionate sermon.

Lastly, she nodded up at the massive tree in the centre of the courtyard.

'And this is the Gildergreen.' She gave a weak chuckle. 'Sight to see, huh?'

Merrin was confused; the tree in front of them was hardly _green_. It speared up a good thirty feet into the air, twisting and regal, starkly beautiful against the hard blue sky. But it was completely dead—leafless, and as white as bones bleached by the sun.

'Um...it isn't green.'

'Yeah.' Ria seemed chagrined, as if the misnomer was her personal doing. 'Apparently, it _used_ to be green, and people came from all over Skyrim to see it. But a year or so ago, it died. I'm not sure what happened, exactly. People still come from far away to see it—but it's kind of embarrassing now, if you care about that sort of thing.'

With the Wind District covered, they set their sights on the Plain District next; as they strolled easily side by side and Ria gave greetings to people passing by, Merrin found herself staring at her.

She liked the girl, already; she had no obligation to be doing Merrin this favor, and yet she was obviously happy to be there. She exuded a cheerful, friendly sort of energy, and seemed happy just to be walking along. She lifted her face to the sun often, sighing happily, and had a kind word and a ready smile for anyone who spoke to her.

Despite being an Imperial, she was pretty tall—only a few inches shorter than Merrin, and they were a similar size. But where Merrin was statuesque, Ria was willowy; a long, graceful neck and limbs gave her a lanky appearance she wore well. Everything about her was tapered and fine-boned, from her slender fingers, to her straight nose with its narrow bridge that crinkled when she laughed. She had a jaunty step, and ears that stuck out a bit farther than usual, so they held her hair away from her face when she tucked it back. Something about it was endearing to Merrin.

If first impressions meant anything, it was going to be easy to be friends with this girl.

And if the Wind District was somewhat elegant and stately, the Plains District was colorful, shabby, and full of life; as they entered the merchant's circle, there was no shortage of things to point out.

A red-headed Nord in a simple blue dress said hello to Ria as she passed, walking up the stairs they'd come from and toting an enormous basket of wildflowers, and Ria jerked a thumb back after she'd left.

'That woman was named Ysolda. She's an aspiring merchant. Friendly type, and smart, too. She does business with the Khajit when they come to the walls. And she says she wants to buy the Bannered Mare from Hulda one day.' Then a laugh. 'She'll have a hell of a time talking Hulda into it, though.'

It was harder to concentrate here; as the morning had worn on, the city had opened up into full swing. The tantalizing smells of various foods cooking were mingling on the breeze, and the hooting laughter of two children weaving through the throng and chasing each other was competing with the shouts of peddlers, advertising their goods. But Merrin did her best.

'You'll want to know about the different market stalls,' Ria encouraged her. 'Let me show you what we have.'

She pointed to a woman with copper-colored hair first. 'That's Carlotta Valentia. Remember what I said about her? She sells all sorts of produce at her stand. Fruits and vegetables, bread sometimes. Milk and butter, too.'

'I remember her. I bought some food from her and her daughter the other day.'

But Carlotta wasn't looking happy right then, though. She was talking to a Redguard in garnet-red robes that were clearly expensive, and looking agitated as she waved her hands around, talking quickly.

'Who is that she's talking to?'

Ria gave her a look that spoke volumes. 'That guy? His name is Nazeem. He owns Snowsand farm, a ways outside the city, and he thinks he's a _really_ big deal.' She snorted. 'If I were you, I'd just avoid him as much as possible—lessens the chance of having to hear him speak.'

That was the opposite of an endorsement coming from her _very_ friendly guide, so Merrin just nodded her head and took the advice.

They took a few steps to the left, and a Bosmer man who was clearly a butcher stopped shouting about his 'fresh cuts, straight from the wilds', and called out to Ria instead. He was about their age, and good-looking, too, with a charming smile and attitude, and it wasn't long they were standing there before Merrin was grinning to herself. With the way he talked to Ria, laughing and ducking his head and touching her arm, it was _obvious_ that he had more than just _rump roast_ on his mind.

By the time she managed to extricate herself, Ria had two spots of pink color on her cheeks, and one look at Merrin's expression only had them deepening.

'Sooo...' She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitated, considered her options, decided to ask. 'Who was _that_ lovely gentleman?'

' _Shhhh_!' Ria hurried them away, pushing her along as the butcher smiled after them, and only turned to look at her when they were several paces away, still blushing. 'That's..uh..that was Anoriath.'

Merrin looked at her pointedly. 'He seems nice.'

But Ria refused to take the bait. 'He _is_ nice. He and his brother came to Skyrim from Valenwood, about ten years ago, so he says. He really likes to hunt, and sells most of what he catches here in the market.' She averted her gaze, sounding casual. 'We've gone hunting together in the plains a few times, since I've joined the Companions.'

It didn't seem like she'd overstepped with her question, and that encouraged her. Grinning, Merrin reached out and elbowed the lanky woman.

'Ria, out with it. He _obviously_ has a thing for you.'

Finally, Ria met her eye; her angular face was very pink, but her expression had gone resolute, and she nodded.

'That may be true,' she conceded, sounding wry. 'But unfortunately, _I_ don't have a thing for _him_. He'll have to be getting his meat somewhere else.'

The answer caught Merrin off guard, from this girl she was just getting to know, and a delighted burst of laughter came exploding out of her. She grinned, mouth open in surprise, and stared at the Imperial with brown eyes dancing. ' _Ria!'_

Ria ducked her head, but she was grinning too. 'Come on, stay focused. There's more to see.'

They stopped momentarily at the third stall in the market, but it was empty and unattended. Ria stared at it, eyebrows furrowed.

'Huh. She must be taking a day off. This is Fralia Gray-Mane's stall—Eorlund's wife. She's usually here during the days, selling jewellery that Eorlund makes. Gorgeous stuff, if you can afford it.'

'I usually can't.'

'Well...' Ria looked thoughtful. 'Stay with us, and do some jobs, and soon that might not be the case.'

She knew about both Belethor and Arcadia's shops, and said as much, so Ria skipped them over; instead she led her through a short, angled alley between the two buildings, past a guard who was watching the market, looking bored.

The road led to another residential area. The homes here weren't as nice as the ones in the Wind District, but they were apparently more affordable—and this part of the city didn't see much bustle, so it was good for people who wanted peace and quiet.

'There's an old woman there'—Ria pointed to the house farthest down the way—'named Olava the Feeble, that will tell you your fortune, if it interests you. She can read palms, tea leaves, crystals...she even does the old Nordic scrying.' At that part, she shuddered. 'Poor birds.'

 _Poor birds is right._ Merrin looked at her, trying to mask her skepticism. 'And do _you_ like going to have your fortune told?'

'Nah.' She mustn't have done a very good job, because Ria looked at her expression and grinned. 'I'd rather have it be a surprise! Let me find out how my life is gonna go by me _living_ it, you know?'

Her words reminded Merrin suddenly and vividly of Hadvar, staring at her wistfully before she left his uncle's house; saying he was the kind of man who believed in making his own fate.

She nodded. 'I know exactly what you mean.' As they circled back, she doubted very much she'd be visiting Olava.

They were in the last leg of the tour, now—walking down the last stretch of the main road, passing things she'd all seen before, and just didn't have the names for.

'This house belongs to a farmer named Severio. No wife or family—he's been working hard to get his farm off the ground. Hopefully that giant didn't set him back too much.'

'This house is empty right now, for sale. It's called Breezehome. Cute, isn't it?'

The Imperial stopped walking in front of the smithy, and turned to her. 'This is Warmaiden's. It's owned and run by a couple, and the wife does all the smithing. I think her name is Adrienne. But I don't have much need to ever come down this way—Eorlund does all my repairs.'

Merrin grimaced; Adrienne hadn't been kidding when she'd griped about Eorlund being tough competition. Even some people in her own city didn't know her!

'And _that's_ the Drunken Huntsmen.' Ria was pointing now to the tavern on the low hill, with torches blazing on either side of the doors, and a set of buck antlers mounted on the lintel.

'This place is alright, but it's pricier than the Mare. It's owned and run by Anoriath's brother, Elrindir. He's...alright, too,' she hedged. 'The Huntsmen is technically an inn, but it never has vacancy—the rooms are full of permanent boarders, including a Dunmer mercenary.' Then she chuckled. 'Not like you'll be needing to hire anyone, anymore.'

If Ria knew that someone had contracted the Companions to deal with Elrindir, she wasn't letting on about it, and Merrin decided that now wasn't the time to inform her if she didn't. She just nodded at the other girl's words, saying nothing, and let her continue.

'And last, but not least, the guard's barracks.' She waved her hand with a flourish at the last building, directly ahead of them and beside the city gates; a low, square affair made of sturdy wood with tiny windows, and a widow's walkabout on the roof that guards probably used as a vantage point.

'If you're ever in trouble and you can't get to us for some reason, just alert the guards here and they'll give you a hand. Commander Caius leads the city's armed guard, and he's more than capable at it. He and the Companions have banded together in the past, when a situation has called for it.'

Ria spun around to face her then. 'And that's it! The grand tour, finished. I hope it was helpful.' She was smiling at Merrin, looking pleased with herself, and Merrin answered her honestly.

'It _was_ helpful. I'm not used to having anybody to show me around when I end up somewhere new.' She shrugged, and even though she felt a bit awkward, she smiled back. 'It was actually fun, and I'm grateful. Thank you, Ria.'

Ria waved her hand to shoo away Merrin's words, but her grin widened.

'None of that, Merrin. You're one of us now! I wouldn't think of doing less.' The woman's dark eyes danced then as she looked at her. 'If you're _really_ grateful, how about you repay me by joining me for some early lunch, back at the Bannered Mare? I'd be _grateful_ for the company, and I can answer any questions you might still have.'

The morning had passed quickly as they'd wandered the streets, and the sun was beating down on both of their heads; the noontide meal wasn't far off anyway... and she did have more questions. She smiled at the unexpected offer.

'That sounds great.'

* * *

An hour later, Merrin was leaning back in an old wooden chair, feeling satisfied and at ease.

The pair of women had walked down to the Bannered Mare and taken seats close to the door, where lit sconces had splashed extra light over them and their table. They'd ordered bowls of venison stew and buttered bread, and as they'd eaten, they'd discussed a wide range of topics—predominantly about life as a Companion, and Jorrvaskr's comings and goings. The Imperial was full of tips and advice.

Merrin had finished her stew before Ria, and now she was watching the lanky girl as she talked animatedly between mouthfuls. She was just finishing explaining to her that certain other members of the Companions would be willing to help her train, if she asked.

Apparently, both Torvar and Athis would be happy to help her with her one-handed weaponry, but couldn't agree on which type of weapon was best. It was lucky that she didn't use a shield, because Njada was the best shieldmaster they had, and getting help from her was like pulling teeth from a turtle. Vilkas was, of _course_ , the best at swordplay, and Ria herself was taking lessons from him as regularly as possible. But for agility training in her armor, she should go to Farkas...

'...But I saw that you carry a bow as well. In which case, you should ask the Huntress for help. Nobody else in Jorrvaskr can shoot like her.' Ria was using her final bit of bread now to sop up the last of her stew, and grinning at Merrin's confused expression.

'Who's the huntress?'

'Oh! Right, of course you wouldn't know. But I figured you might've _guessed,_ ' the Imperial teased.

'It's Aela. 'The Huntress' is her handle, the title she chose for herself, and it stuck. For good reason, too.' Ria shrugged. 'Nobody loves to hunt as much as her.'

Merrin thought for a second about Aela's bedroom full of pelts and trophies, the old Draugr armor she wore, and the predatory glint in her green eyes, and nodded. 'Yeah...the name makes sense.'

'If she thinks you're skilled enough not to chase her prey away, she'll take you out on a hunt. That's where the _real_ archery lessons happen.' Ria shook her head then, grinning ruefully. 'So far, I haven't made the cut yet. The only Circle members who've taken me anywhere are Vilkas and Farkas.'

Merrin sat for a second, thinking. The Redguard serving girl saw that they'd both finished their meal, and came swooping in to take their bowls and plates. After she'd cleared out, Merrin looked again at the girl sitting across from her.

'So...what about _you_ , then?'

Ria cocked her head. 'What about me?'

Merrin smiled. 'I'd like to know more about my guide, if she's willing.'

'Oh!' Ria chuckled, and looked pleased. 'That's easy. You have questions? Ask away.'

Merrin had always been the curious type, and joining the Companions had _filled_ her with questions. Straightening up in her seat, she laced her hands together on the table before she spoke again.

'You said you've been with the Companions for about six months now, right?'

'That's right.'

'Well, if you don't mind me asking, what made you want to join them? What life did you leave behind to do it?'

Ria made a thoughtful sort of humming noise at her questions, and then she leaned forward too, resting pointy elbows on the wooden table top. She was wearing a wry sort of smile when she spoke.

'I don't mind at all. We'll get to know these things about each other sooner or later. Hmm. Well, you can tell just by looking at me that I'm not from Skyrim. I'm an Imperial, from Cyrodiil.'

Merrin smiled. 'So then, is Ria a nickname? Do you have one of those typical, fancy Imperial names?'

Ria snorted a laugh, and cracked a wide smile, looking surprised. 'You got me! You're the first one to have guessed. Oh, well. The Imperial names _can_ be stuffy at times.' Then she nodded. 'Ria _is_ a nickname.'

'Come on then,' Merrin prodded, her smile turning sly. 'Out with it. Your full name.'

In response, Ria pursed her lips, eyeing her seriously, assessingly, and for a second Merrin worried she'd crossed a line somehow.

But that mustn't have been the case, because Ria's mouth stretched into another sudden smile, and she gave Merrin a little mock bow.

'Alright then. Riannen Avalencia Mellius, at your service, _madame_.'

 _Oh!..._ With effort, Merrin managed to keep her face composed. But only barely.

'Wow. That is a... _very_ fancy name...Riannen Avalencia.'

The Imperial obviously saw right through her, and eyed her pointedly. 'It _is_ ,' she agreed tartly. 'And none of the other Companions know it. You seem like a sensible woman, though, and trustworthy. Sensible and trustworthy enough to keep this information to _yourself_.'

The words were about as subtle as a hammer, and as the two women eyed each other, a sort of understanding passed between them. Merrin saw the gesture for the hand of friendship that it was, and her bright eyes danced as they held the other woman's.

'Of course. Your secret is safe with me, Miss Mellius.'

'Good.' The Imperial's darker eyes were just as full of merry mischief now. 'Then we'll stick with just Ria in company, if you don't mind.'

Merrin nodded, but then a new thought hit her, and she asked another dubious question.

'It is _Miss_ Mellius, isn't it? Or did you leave more than just your name behind in Cyrodiil?'

The question took a second to sink in, and then Ria whooped a laugh that turned a couple of heads at other tables.

'Oh,' she gasped, when she'd composed herself. 'Oh, I like you already. _Yes_ , you silly rabbit, it's just _Miss_ Mellius. There's no husband pining after me, back in Cyrodiil.' The image must have amused her, because she started laughing again. 'Me! When would I have the _time_?'

'Men _do_ take up a lot of a woman's time, don't they?' But Merrin said it fondly; she'd had only a man to raise her, and some of the dearest friends of her life were men.

'That they do.' But Ria sounded fond as well, and then she shook her head. 'No, what I _really_ left behind in Cyrodiil was my family's farm.' She shrugged. 'Much less exciting, and even _more_ time consuming.'

'Tell me about it?'

Ria smiled. 'It was my parents, my grandfather, my seven other siblings, and me.'

Merrin sucked in a breath. 'Full house.' She was thinking comparatively about the cabin she'd grown up in, empty but for her and her father.

'Full is an understatement,' Ria said with a chuckle. 'Full, and busy. We grew crops _and_ raised livestock. We were out in the country, but not _too_ far from the nearest town, and once a week my pa would wagon up and take one of us with him to sell some of what we grew. Fruit, vegetables, milk, eggs, wool—you name it.'

'It sounds...wholesome,' Merrin offered. 'A good place for a child to grow up.'

Ria smiled, but for the first time there was a tinge of sadness to it. 'It was. And I love my family, very much. It was hard to leave them. But...' her eyes met Merrin's, and they spoke as she did.

'In Cyrodiil, things aren't so relaxed as they are here in Skyrim. When it comes to...certain things, tradition is very important, and—and—oh, piss on it.'

She heaved a great impatient sigh, and the fingers she'd been unconsciously wringing together came flying apart as she gestured with both hands.

'I was sick to death of growing crops by the time I was of age—since I was a little girl, I'd always wanted to be a Companion. It was my life-long dream.'

Merrin's stomach gave a funny thump at her words, but she didn't say anything, and Ria continued.

'I told my parents that, continuously, but neither of them took me seriously. I'm the baby of the family, and a girl. So despite what I wanted, all my _father_ was concerned with was marrying me off to the best possible match I could get.'

Merrin wrinkled her nose in surprise. 'I don't understand...I've done a lot of work in Cyrodiil, and I was impressed at how...Cosmopolitan and equal-opportunity it was. I saw as many women guards as men, and plenty of women mercenaries. There were even women in the high courts.'

'That's how it is in the _cities_.' When Ria responded, her voice was forlorn. 'But I lived in the countryside, and in the countryside, things are still set back quite a bit. Arranged marriages are still popular, and men and women have roles in society that they fill, and typically don't cross out of.'

Merrin looked at the woman across from her, and felt a swell of sympathy; she couldn't imagine being caged by her father, simply because of her sex. It wasn't fair.

'So, what happened, then? How did you come to leave Cyrodiil, and make your way to Jorrvaskr?'

'My father died,' Ria said simply. 'No, no, don't look like that,' she said hurriedly when she saw Merrin blanch. 'I wouldn't have answered if I didn't feel like it.'

Merrin winced. 'I just wasn't expecting that for an answer. I'm sorry, Ria, if I upset you.'

She knew that not every culture was as cavalier about death as the Nords, and was worried that she'd offended the first person in Jorrvaskr to show her real kindness.

But Ria didn't look offended.

'It's _alright_ , Merrin, really.' The willowy woman straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly looking far away. 'I mourn him every day, it's true. I know he only meant to take care of me. But what I said is the truth, too. His dying is the reason why I'm sitting here talking to you.'

'How..so?'

'Because, when he died, my mother wanted nothing to do with running the farm anymore—she gave my brothers their inheritances early. My oldest brother Cassian took over in his stead.'

She smiled. 'There are ten years between us, but Cassian has always understood me in a way that the rest of my family didn't, really. My two sisters had already been married off at that point...one of them happily, the other, much less so. And he looked at me, and I guess he saw that I was desperate to leave, because he intervened.'

'What do you mean?' She was almost too afraid to ask.

Ria still had a faraway look, and she pursed her lips again. 'It sounds horrible, but my pa died at just the right time. A couple months before, he'd finally found me a 'suitable man'. I was betrothed, and my wedding was to be early this past spring.'

Merrin was engrossed in the story, and her voice was horrified as she spoke. 'No.'

'Yes.'

'Even though he knew how you felt?'

' _Especially_ _because_ he knew how I felt. He knew I wanted my freedom, and he was afraid I would bolt, so he arranged for the shortest possible engagement.'

'That's _horrible_!' Merrin cried, outraged.

'That's a well-meaning father in rural Cyrodiil,' Ria replied, with some bitterness.

'So what _happened_?' Merrin demanded.

'Well, my pa had used a lot of his favor to try and find me the wealthiest man who would have me—a middling country girl. He ended up with a man who lived far from us, who owned land just outside of Cheydinhal. His family name was Antaea. He sounded suitable, and interested, so they entered into negotiations. But since we lived so far apart, correspondence took a lot of time.'

'You didn't try to leave in that time?' Merrin couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Ria sighed. 'Try to understand. That's just how things _were,_ back at home. And I love my family. I didn't want to anger and worry them by just taking off. I thought I could talk my pa out of the arrangement, if I stayed.'

She shook her head, long hair swaying around her elbows. 'But I didn't really get the chance. He sent a letter to the Antaea's saying that they'd reached a satisfactory agreement, and that my betrothed should travel down to meet me in person. Then, a couple days later, he keeled over in one of the fields.' She grimaced.

'My brother knew what the last letter had said, and knew my betrothed was coming. I was a mess—grieving over my pa, and feeling like a bird in a cage. Cassian came to me one day after sundown, and told me that he would get me out. He said that when my betrothed made it to our farm, that he would break off the engagement and send him back to Cheydinhal.'

Merrin let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, and nodded slowly. 'So that's how it happened? Your brother broke off your engagement and sent the Antaea man home? And you were finally free to come here?'

For a single beat, a shadow flitted across Ria's face, and she looked down at the table.

But in the next second, it had passed. She gave Merrin a small smile, and nodded as she met her gaze again.

'Yeah, that's how it happened. Cassian gave me leave to travel. None of the rest of them really approved—especially not mother—but I guess they could finally see that I was serious. My _next_ oldest brother, Percius, came with me in a carriage, and we crossed the northern border into Falkreath hold. From there, we made our way to Whiterun, and when my brother's last-ditch attempt to change my mind wouldn't work, he went back home to Cyrodiil.'

She grinned then, and spread out both hands in a flourishing motion, sounding cheerful. 'And six months later, here I am! A happy whelp, living the dream and learning with the mighty warriors of Jorrvaskr. Having lunch with you.'

Merrin looked at the other woman carefully. What had she not said, a few seconds before? For a second, she considered calling Ria out—asking her what she was hiding.

But just as quickly, she decided against it. Obviously, it was something private, and she was _hardly_ in a position to be digging around in people's guarded secrets. Swallowing, she made herself smile in return and say something.

'I'm really happy for you, Ria. It's wonderful that you finally made it here.'

Whether the tense moment had been real or imagined, it had passed; Ria nodded at her, smiling warmly, her eyes no longer seeming far away.

'Thank you. It's wonderful to be here.' Then she propped one elbow back on the table, and rested her pointed chin in one hand, eyeing Merrin with fresh interest.

'What about _you_?'

Merrin tensed; she'd been dreading this question. She liked Ria, but until she had her situation a little more figured out, she had no more intention of telling her about Helgen or the dragon or Dalan Dufont than she had of telling Aela. Slowly, she raised her brows.

' _What_ about me?' She asked cautiously.

Ria must've seen right through her, because she snorted and waved her other hand dismissively.

'Oh, relax. It's obvious that you don't want to talk about where you came from or what brought you to Whiterun. All in good time.'

Merrin blushed for the second time in as many days, embarrassed and awkward. Was she so obvious? She opened her mouth to respond, but Ria kept talking.

'I just want to know what it is that made you want to be a _Companion_.'

 _That_ question gave Merrin pause, snapping her out of her prickle of embarrassment, and she looked at Ria in surprise. A silence stretched between them then, with Ria patiently waiting; Merrin was the one to break it, in a careful tone of voice.

'You know...out of all the people who live in Jorrvaskr, you're the _only_ person to actually ask me that.'

'You can't _really_ say that yet, seeing how you still haven't met Vignar or Brill.' Ria grinned playfully at her, eyes teasing. 'But it doesn't much matter— _I'm_ the most inquisitive, caring, friendly person they've got. Or at least, that's what I keep telling them.'

Despite herself, Merrin let out a laugh, and then abruptly sank back against the wooden rungs of her chair, feeling relieved.

Ria wasn't going to push her for information—that much was clear. What could it hurt to be honest? Pushing her unruly waves back out of her face, Merrin hit the other woman with a smirk.

'Alright. So you want to know why I wanted to be a Companion. Do you swear not to laugh?'

Ria's eyes danced, and she placed a hand over her heart—the girl was obviously a huge tease. 'Solemnly.'

Merrin's eyes narrowed in response, but her smile widened all the same. 'I don't know if you'll believe me, actually. It's corny. But it's the truth. And I think you of all people will appreciate it.'

' _Out_ with it, woman!' Ria slapped the same hand down on the wooden table top for emphasis. 'You're as bad as Torvar. I want answers!'

Merrin waited another second, and then confessed. 'It was actually _my_ childhood dream, too. Same as you.'

Ria didn't laugh; she looked dumbfounded for a full second, and then leaned back in her chair and _tsked_ , looking accusatory.

'Really?' She swatted at one of Merrin's hands. 'You're pulling my leg! I told Torvar when I was new that it had been my lifelong dream to be a Companion, and he opened his big _mouth_ the next night in front of everyone. Now most of them pick on me about it.' She huffed. 'And now you too, I guess.'

'No, I promise—I'm telling the truth.' Merrin held both hands out in a peaceable gesture, trying to look convincing. 'I told you it was corny. But it's something we have in common.' She huffed. 'Torvar really did that? Jeez,' she muttered. 'And he seemed so harmless last night.'

'He _is_ harmless, unless you count gossip as a weapon.' Ria huffed, and shook her head. 'But enough about him. Are you serious? You really mean it?'

' _Yes_ ,' she replied earnestly. 'I have no reason to lie. My da raised me on stories about the Companions from as early as I could understand, and never stopped. As I got older, he just got fresher stories...' She smiled at the memories. 'One of my favorites is the one about Skjor and the hundred-and-one Orc berserkers.'

Ria's expression had softened since she'd last seen it, and after a second of silence, a slow smile tugged itself free from one side of her mouth.

'Apparently, Kodlak was there, too,' she said dryly. 'And Skjor insists that it was more like _forty_ berserkers. But he's just being modest.' She propped both elbows onto the table again, and leaned into them, her smile widening as she looked at Merrin.

'It's one of _my_ favorite stories, too. Alright, I believe you. In that case, it's good to have another nostalgic sap on board. Good on your pa to raise you that way.'

'There never was much I could fault him on.' The Gods knew _that_ was the truth.

'So where is he now? Your pa?' Ria was still wearing an easy smile.

Merrin hadn't been expecting the question, even though she should have, what with all the talk of fathers. And even though it had been so long, a sharp little pain dug its way into her chest. She fumbled on an answer, smile fading, before just looking sort of helplessly at Ria. Then she hissed out a slow breath and propped her chin in one hand.

'Hopefully in Sovngarde.' She stared levelly at the other woman as she said it, and tried her best to answer as levelly as she had.

Ria blanched; her cheeks and neck turned red, and her mouth popped open on a surprised little 'o'. Looking mortified, she reached out with one thin hand and wrapped it around Merrin's wrist.

'Oh, Merrin. I'm so sorry. It was thoughtless of me to ask like that. I—'

But Merrin shook her head. 'You did nothing wrong. We've just traded places, from the looks of it. It's like you said—I wouldn't have answered if I hadn't felt like it.' The Imperial looked like she needed comforting, so Merrin reached out and patted the hand gripping her wrist.

'I still should be more careful! I really am sorry.' Ria took a shaky breath, and then let go of her wrist, only to grab her free hand instead and squeeze. 'When...?'

She knew what Ria was asking, and supplied the answer automatically. 'Four years ago, this past Mid Year. And then I picked up and left _my_ family farm behind...so to speak.'

'Four years...may the gods rest his soul.' Ria's eyes were actually glassy with unshed tears, and that combined with the warmth of her hand made Merrin's stomach jump at the intimacy; she wasn't used to strangers caring about her.

'I'm sure they have.' Like always, it was hard to talk about her father for any length of time, and her throat was tight as she squeezed Ria's hand. 'Really, Ria. It's alright. I'm alright. It's not rude to ask about somebody and then find out they're dead.'

The sensible words hung between them for a while, and then Ria sniffed and shook her head; the blotchy blush was dying away, but slowly.

'Well, at least let me buy you a drink. Damn.' She grimaced at herself. 'I don't think you were expecting such heavy talk over a bowl of stew with someone you hardly know.'

'Well,' Merrin said slowly, 'to be honest, I wasn't. But I really don't mind.' It was the truth.

Ria looked at her doubtfully, and raised a hand to signal Hulda for a drink, but Merrin surprised herself by reaching out and catching that hand with hers, and pulling it back down to the table.

'I appreciate the offer, Ria, but I can't stay for a drink. I really should get moving—Farkas gave me my first job this morning, while I was waiting for you.'

Ria looked embarrassed again, and slipped her hands out of Merrin's. 'Yeah, I'll bet! You're just running away because I put my foot in my mouth.' She sighed.

'Athis is always telling me that I'm too meddlesome. But I'm not, I swear! At least,' she colored again, and her eyes fell to the table top. 'I try not to be.'

She looked so forlorn that Merrin felt an overwhelming urge to comfort her, and she leaned forward in her seat so that she could rest a hand on the woman's shoulder.

'Hey, hey. None of that! I swear, Ria, I'm telling you the truth. I'm not running away, I just have work to do. I'm not mad at you for anything.'

Ria looked up again, with an expression that said she was hesitant to trust her words. 'Are you _sure_? I feel like an ass. I wanted to show you around to _help_ you. Not to end up upsetting you. You're new here, and...'

'I'm absolutely sure,' Merrin said firmly. 'It's like you said—sooner or later, our stories will come out. You didn't upset me at all.'

More needed to be said. She could feel it in the air around the table. But what if she said too much? The wrong thing? Internally, she cursed. She'd been living and working alone for too long, it seemed. Resolutely, she opened her mouth.

'And...'

 _The truth! Just tell her the truth!_

'And...it's actually more than that. You've been really _kind_ to me, over the last couple days, and you've helped me a lot. I'm...not used to that sort of thing,' she said stiffly. 'But I've really enjoyed it. You've made me feel welcomed, and I'm happy to have met you, Ria. Thank you.'

As soon as the words were out, she felt less foolish about them—and they obviously had the desired effect. Ria's cheeks pinked, and the sad look melted off of her face, to be replaced by a slow, dazzling smile.

'Really?'

She found herself smiling back in response. 'Really.'

'Well...okay, then.' Ria let out a laugh that was more like a giggle. 'You're welcome, then. I'm glad!'

At that point, the serving girl came swishing over to ask if they'd like anything else to eat or drink, and Ria shook her head at her.

'Nope, nothing else today. We've got work to do.'

She ignored Merrin's protests as she covered the cost of _both_ bowls of stew, and then cheerfully shoved her hand away when she tried to repay her.

'As if. _I_ asked _you_ to lunch, remember? Now,' she grinned. 'You really have a job to do for Farkas?'

Merrin eyed her beadily for one hard second, and then sighed in defeat. 'Yeah.'

'Your first real job! Exciting,' she replied sagely. 'Do you know where you're going? I've gotta head out on a job of my own, but I can give you directions if you need them.'

She smiled, warmed by yet another kind offer. 'No, I should be fine to find my own way. I had a pretty good guide to show me around, you know.'

Ria's cheeks went pink again at the words, and she looked pleased. 'Right, right. Well then...good luck! You'll have to tell me how it went... _Shield-Sister_.'

The title was still so new that hearing it gave her goose-bumps, and she rubbed one of her arms as she nodded, and the two women stood to leave.

'Thanks. I'll do that.'

* * *

As she walked down the main road of the Plains District on her way back to Jorrvaskr, she felt unabashedly triumphant, and turned her face up to greet the sun just as Ria had earlier, with new-found appreciation.

The job at the Drunken Huntsman had been easier than she'd anticipated. Farkas had been right; when it came down to it, Elrindir had been all bark and no bite. Olfrid Battle-Born was a frequent patron at his tavern, and apparently a good friend too, because the Bosmer had taken up his stubborn mantle and started bashing the Gray-Manes—and Stormcloaks in general—to anybody that dared to talk to him. Not _exactly_ surprising, when you considered the way the Bear of Eastmarch treated elves.

When she'd confronted him, he'd said some things that gave her cause to believe that he'd been denying service to anybody who disagreed with him—so that was probably what Farkas had meant by 'throwing his weight around'.

Fortunately for her, he'd _actually_ looked to weigh very little; he'd been a lanky mer, with not a lot of muscle, and the _threat_ of having his ass handed to him had been enough to get him to shut up, in the end. But it hadn't been a very willing agreement, and she was glad that the Bannered Mare was apparently the nicer tavern, because she had the distinct feeling that she was officially less than welcome in the Huntsman.

She noticed Anoriath waving cheerfully at her as she passed by his stall in the market, and returned the wave feeling only slightly guilty as she made her way to the stairs.

At some point she'd run into Farkas again, and get paid. But at the moment, she was focused on just one thing: armor. Eorlund had made her a generous offer, and she fully planned to take him up on it—she was going to need good, quality armor if she wanted to do any dangerous jobs.

She didn't have enough gold to pay him for the set they'd make, but again, doing jobs would fix that problem, and she'd make good on her debt. First, she needed protection.

At the core of it, she was excited—excited to work a forge again, and especially one as amazing as the Skyforge. It had been years since she'd done more than basic repairs, and she was looking forward to getting back into the stride of things. Never in her wildest dreams had she _actually_ believed she'd get to work alongside _the_ Eorlund Gray-Mane.

The man himself was standing in view on the rocky outcrop that held the Skyforge, and he raised a hammer in salute to her as she climbed the stairs to Jorrvaskr. She raised a hand in return, and smiled as he lumbered back to the forge, basking in the optimism blooming in her chest.

Her first official day was turning out to be better than she'd dared to hope for.

* * *

What was that old adage, about spooking off a good mood by noticing it was there? She and the smith hadn't been talking for very long before things went decidedly awry.

When she'd arrived, Eorlund had sat and listened by the forge as she'd described the set of armor she was looking to make; the longer she'd talked, the more incredulous he'd looked.

She'd been expecting some push back from the older smith; it was an unconventional blend of pieces, and she knew it. But when she'd finished her description, he'd actually scoffed in reply, and her anticipation hadn't done much to prevent her getting offended. Her design was more than sound, and she knew it—she'd been relying on it for the past four years. But he was treating her proposal as if it were preposterous.

In a span of minutes, they'd found themselves in the midst of an unexpected but passionate argument, and now Merrin was shaking her head in disbelief. Was this the effect that Eorlund had on _all_ of his clients?

 _No_ , an inner voice sighed, snidely. _Of course not. Only_ you _would get so worked up over a suit of armor that you're tempted to punch the greatest smith in Tamriel._

But it obviously _wasn't_ only her; Gray-Mane may have been modest, but he was _bullheaded_ beyond anything she'd imagined!

As if he could hear her thoughts, Eorlund fixed her with a hard look and pursed his lips as he took a step back. 'Way you have it, half of this armor won't even be steel, girl. I work with _steel_.'

She stared back at him just as stubbornly. 'You're more than qualified as a leather worker. I know you are. You didn't get to being the best smith in Skyrim on steel alone.' She put one hand on a cocked hip, and when she spoke she sounded exasperated. 'But if it bothers you that much, I can focus on all of the leather work, and you needn't concern yourself.'

Eorlund huffed. 'Don't think I don't see the trick in those words. I'm not so easily baited.' Still eyeing her, he set down the hammer he'd been holding and crossed his arms, muscles tightly banded. 'I _could_ work the leather, aye. But this design...it's strange, and seems ill-favored. I don't normally get requests like this.' He snorted. 'And when I do, I don't usually _fill_ them.'

'Why not?' She was trying to sound level, and not really succeeding.

'Well, for starters, it isn't even a _full_ design!'

She huffed, incredulous. ' _Yes,_ it _is_.'

'In the name of—there are pieces _missing_ , girl!' He'd abandoned his restrained stance somewhere along the sentence's way, and now he was waving both huge hands around. 'Full design, my eye!'

'I've told you everything I'll need,' she snapped. 'I came up with this design myself, tailored _specifically_ to my style and my needs. It will serve me well.'

For a second, they just stared each other down. Then Eorlund quickly shot out a question, already sounding triumphant, as if he were proving his point.

'And what for a cowter piece?'

'I'll go without,' she answered just as swiftly. 'I don't need them.'

'I'm sure your elbows would disagree.'

She gritted her teeth. 'My _elbows_ will be fine. I'll protect them with my form instead – the form I'll still _have_ without a solid steel tube for a rerebrace.'

He grumbled to himself, bushy brows drawn together. 'Oh, I see. Of _course._ And what about the demi-gaunts? Been a _long_ while since a warrior asked me for a pair of those ninny things. _Neve_ _r_ saw him again after that, either,' he said, eyeing her steadily to make his meaning clear.

'I don't just use a sword. I shoot a bow at range. I need my fingers uncovered to do that.' Merrin glared. 'Hard to shoot a bow in a pair of steel mittens.'

'Hard to use a bow _or_ a sword, when you've got no fingers,' the older smith retorted.

Merrin threw up _her_ hands then, and her voice rose with them. 'You're the most sought-after smith in the continent! And you're acting like this is the first set of hybrid armor anyone's ever asked you to make. There are more ways to fight than just the _Nordic_ way, you know.'

Eorlund bristled, and drew up to his full and considerable height. His booming voice more than matched her own, and he wasn't even shouting.

'A fact I know well—one I definitely don't need a newblood remindin' me of. I _am_ the finest smith we've got, and you've got it wrong. It ain't that I only make Nordic arms and armor. It's that I only make _safe_ arms and armor. I didn't make it to being the best by sellin' folks their buryin' clothes.'

For several long moments, the only sound was the distant wail of Heimskr's sermon. Merrin bit back several things she wouldn't allow herself to say. Then she forced her balled up fists to unclench, forced herself to let out a breath, and raised her brows on a safer reply.

'You know...you're awfully concerned with safety, for someone who doesn't even wear a shirt when he works the forge.'

For a second, Eorlund looked downright constipated, and puffed out his chest like he had some indignant reply. But then he surprised her, and laughed instead—a gusty, begrudging sort of laugh that made his serious blue eyes twinkle again. He shook his head as he looked at her, and then stroked a huge hand over the wild hair of his beard. A hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth, and some of the tension that had built up between them abruptly melted.

'Maybe you're right about that, girl.'

'I'm right about the _armor_ ,' she persisted. 'I'm not just making this up. Well – I mean, I _did_ make it up, but –' She cursed. 'I _know_ this armor will perform, Eorlund, because it's the same build I've been _using_ for the last four years.' _And I shouldn't have to tell you that to get you to listen to me._ She crossed her arms and looked at him pointedly.

'...Huh.' For a few seconds, Eorlund looked properly sheepish. 'Guess I shoulda figured it was somethin' like that, what with your...hm.' Then his brow furrowed, making him look as if an idea had just occurred to him. When he met her gaze again, he was actually looking annoyed.

'Hold a minute. You mean to tell me that you're coming to _me_ askin' for me to replicate a suit that some average, backwater smith made you? Me?'

After only a second of struggle, Merrin very generously bit her tongue on the words trying to leap from her mouth, and settled on _somewhat_ less rude ones.

'That's big talk, for someone who never even _saw_ the armor. Not to mention _very_ modest. I _did_ grow up hearing about what a _modest_ man you are, Eorlund.' She stared at him pointedly. 'This must be what my da was on about.'

Another moment of incredulous staring; another begrudging gust of laughter.

'You little bobcat,' he eventually chuckled. 'Whoever your da was, he earned his rest, raisin' up a mouth like yours.'

His stance loosened, no longer confrontational, and then he hit her with a sudden grin. 'But you're right, again. Lucky for _you_ , I think some sass is a good thing. There're times t'keep your yap shut, and times to open it. I've not yet gotten so old an' stuffy that I can't take a call-out when I need one.'

Merrin was still riled up, and she huffed at him. 'Good! And I'm not so young and inexperienced that I don't know when to hold my ground.' She took a step towards him. 'The design is good. My work is good. Hear me out...please,' she tacked on begrudgingly. 'I _very_ much would like to work with you, Eorlund. It would be an honor. But only if you're willing to listen to me.' Then she snapped her jaw shut, and stood there, breathing hard.

He stared at her for a long moment, and then snorted before picking his hammer back up off the workbench.

'Well, chin-up, then. If you work a forge as fancy as you put up a fuss, then we'll do just fine.'

She took in the look on his face, the hammer in his hand, the words he'd said, and a suspicious little bubble of hope came sneaking into her chest. 'Wait,' she said cautiously. 'Does that mean...you'll do it? You'll build from my design?'

'Shor's bones, girl,' he rumbled. 'But you're like a dog worryin' the meat off a bone. _Yeah_ , that's what it means. We'll work with your design. _Mind you,'_ he raised his voice and kept talking over any reply she might've made, 'I still got problems with those bare fingers. And we'll be making some improvements. I don't put out work that you could get just _any_ old place.'

Her anger deflated at his words almost as quickly as it had come, pushed out by rising, bubbling excitement, and her face broke into a grin. She was pretty sure the lofty tone to his words was unintentional, and it was on the tip of her tongue to tease him about it. But she reeled herself in at the last second; whether or not he said he liked some sass, she thought it was probably best not to push it for now. Instead, she did her best to sound serious and innocent.

'Of course. Where should we begin?'

The older man probably saw right through her, because he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

'I suppose we'll start with the breastplate. Most sensible piece in the whole damn lot.' He turned from her, jerking a thumb off to the side. 'Grab that pair of tongs over there, an' let's stop burning daylight.'

'Let me get dressed. Where do you keep your aprons?'

'Wuh?' He turned back around to face her, looking confused, and then _pshhed_ when he realized what she was talking about.

'Don't have any of them things. Have no use for 'em.'

She could only sigh and shake her head, before she went and grabbed the tongs.

'Of course you don't.'

* * *

The sun was a fiery ball falling back behind the mountains by the time Eorlund announced that they'd done enough for one day, and Merrin was relieved to hear it; the combined heat of the forge and the summer day had her drenched in sweat, and her muscles were well and truly aching from all the work she'd done.

It was obvious that the older smith had been testing her, to get an idea of her skill – he'd let her take the lead in most everything they'd done, asking _her_ questions, having _her_ make decisions. It had been a long time since she'd actually forged something new, and now her body was making her keenly aware of just _how_ long.

But it was satisfying work, that she loved; as Eorlund cleared the day's ashes and slag from the forge and she swept away the bits of oxidized debris, she was smiling widely. As she put aside the unused coal, she was feeling proud of herself.

There'd been no more arguing since they'd gotten down to work, and Eorlund chuckled to himself when he turned to look at her, wiping sweat from his face.

'Alright then, girl. Same time tomorrow?'

'Same time tomorrow. Have a good night.'

He gave a dry smile, and a long winded sigh. 'I'll do that, soon as I've taken a bath.'

Merrin could only agree; as they parted ways and she walked back towards Jorrvaskr, she could feel the layer of sticky sweat and grime that coated her from head to toe. _She_ needed a bath, too. Badly.

She didn't run into anybody on her way through the hall, and in another minute she was standing in the new recruit's room, staring apprehensively at a carved wooden armoire, and feeling again like she was trespassing.

It was Ria's armoire; during their lunch in the Bannered Mare, Ria had told her about what she considered to be one of Jorrvaskr's greatest features – the spring. She'd noticed on her first day in the city that Whiterun was full of rivers and pools, so she hadn't been terribly surprised when Ria informed her that they had a lot of water running _under_ ground, too.

This part of the province was apparently riddled with springs and underground streams, and some of them were naturally warm. And the warriors of Jorrvaskr didn't bathe in traditional tubs, because they were lucky enough to have direct access to one such warm spring, right underneath their mead hall. Some of the hall's first inhabitants had created a convenient entrance to the springs, and the Companions had been soaking in them ever since.

Ria apparently had more foresight than _she_ did, because she'd told her she'd probably be needing a bath soon, and a fresh set of clothes to change into. She'd looked Merrin over casually at the table before announcing that they were 'basically the same size', and telling her that she was more than welcome to borrow some clothes until she had a chance to buy more of her own. Merrin had blustered at the generous offer, telling her guide that it was _too_ generous. But, true to form, the Imperial had merely laughed off her words, insisting that she make herself at home.

And now, several hours later, here she was – standing in the bunk room, sweat chilling down her back, and staring hard at the wooden doors of the armoire.

It was hard because _both_ things were true; it _was_ too generous, much more so than she was used to, and the simple act of kindness was making her squirm. But she _did_ need a bath, and she _didn't_ have any other clothes of her own.

After another long moment of feeling like some sort of intruder, Merrin shook her head with a sigh, and forced herself to reach out and open the doors. She was alone in the room, but she still double-checked to make sure no one was watching before she reached inside. She settled quickly on a deep blue cotton tunic with laces at the neck, and a pair of cotton breeches that looked like they would be long enough, nearly the same shade of brown as her own. Then she reached down to the shelf below, yanked out a clean towel, and quickly closed the doors before she all but skittered out of the room.

She hurried down the hallway, following the instructions Ria had given her, and made a left turn back down the way that she'd taken to get that shield to Aela. But she passed by the Huntress' room; her goal was the wooden door at the very end of the hall, identical to the other two, save for the woven mat on the ground in front of it. This was apparently the door to the baths.

When she flicked the metal latch and the door came whispering open, she saw for herself that it was true. Rather than any room constructed of wood or even cobblestone, the door gave way to a rough stone tunnel, carved from the rock that the city stood on. The tunnel was forked, and as she'd been instructed to, Merrin headed for the split on the right – the side the _women_ of Jorrvaskr used. There were no steps, but rather just carven stone that was slightly damp, curving gently downward and around a corner. The tunnel would have been pitch black, if not for the frequent lamps affixed to the walls, with thick wicks burning tallow.

It was significantly warmer down here, and steamier too – undoubtedly because of the water. After a few more seconds of walking downward, the curve of the tunnel evened out, the sound of moving water got much louder, and she came into the actual cavern of the spring.

 _Wow_.

The light from the fires bounced off of every surface here, sending playful shadows dancing over the rocky walls, turning the slow-moving water into molten gold and bronze. Steam rose up visibly from the water, only to gather on the sloped ceiling of the cavern and then come rolling back down. At the far end of the cavern, a single tiny window had been chiselled through several feet of rock – presumably for a return of fresh air underground – and the last fading rays of the day's sunlight were glimmering through.

Mesmerized, she took a step forward.

To her right, there were several benches carved straight out of the stony wall, with cubby holes to store clothing in. To her left was a solid wall of stone – a natural outcropping that jabbed midway into the spring itself, and acted as a curtain providing privacy for anybody who wanted it. The Companions had taken advantage of nature brilliantly when they made their entryway, and so long as you didn't wander beyond the end of the outcrop, the men and the women couldn't see each other.

It was more than good enough for her; eagerly, Merrin stripped out of her filthy clothes, and shoved them and the clean ones into two different cubby holes. She left her towel on the nearest bench, and her boots in a tangle on the floor. Lastly, she pulled the leather tie from her hair that had been keeping it out of her face while she forged, and then she walked to the edge of the pool.

There were no steps descending into the water – just the natural decline of the pool itself, smooth and warm on the soles of her bare feet.

As far as Ria was concerned, the spring was one of the main reasons why Ysgramor's original Companions had picked this _exact_ location for their mead hall; as Merrin waded waist deep into water that was deliciously warm, she whole-heartedly agreed with her. It was so perfect that she let loose a long groan of satisfaction, before submerging completely.

She was in no rush, and evidently she had the place to herself for the time being. She spread her arms and legs out wide, and just let herself come floating back up to the surface. As her face emerged, she broke into a lazy grin.

* * *

She'd taken longer than she'd meant to in the baths, and night had truly fallen while she'd been soaking in the steamy waters. She'd toweled her hair until it was just damp, and slithered gratefully into Ria's clean clothes before she'd grabbed her boots and padded back up the tunnel to the sleeping quarters. She hadn't eaten since lunch, and now that she was fresh and clean, both she _and_ her stomach had one thing in mind: dinner.

She pulled the door to the baths shut behind her as she stepped back into the side hall, and the cool air of the lower levels was such a stark contrast that it made her shiver with delight. She was feeling so content that she was actually humming to herself as she made her way back to the recruit's room. She didn't notice anything behind her until she felt a hand grab her shoulder.

'Merrin!'

' _Shor's balls!'_ Merrin all but shrieked, and came whirling around, heart hammering, not knowing who to expect. It turned out to be Farkas staring down at her, looking torn between sheepish and pleased.

' _Farkas!'_

'Hey, jeez...I didn't mean to scare you. Sorry about that.' He let his hand fall from her shoulder, and shook his head. 'I've been looking around for you for a little while now.' Suddenly he looked her over again, and smiled teasingly. 'You're looking clean.'

Her heart was still pounding in her chest, and she huffed at him with eyes narrowed before she replied.

'So are _you_.'

It was the truth; when she'd seen him last, he'd been grubby from the road, wearing muddy armor and with a face full of kohl. Now he was scrubbed clean and wearing plainclothes – breeches and an undyed cotton tunic. He'd obviously shaved, and when it was clean, his dark hair was nearly as thick as hers.

The most noticeable difference were the eyes, though; there wasn't a trace of black warpaint around them, and in its absence he looked younger, softer...less like a hardened warrior.

The eyes themselves were looking _very_ blue, and they twinkled as he chuckled at her.

'Yeah, I was pretty ripe when I got back. It was high time for a bath.'

She threw her chin up and sniffed, but her irritation at being startled had faded away, so she smirked at him.

'Hmmm. I think clean is a good look on you.'

Farkas grinned then, and his eyes swept over her in a look that could _only_ be described as appreciative.

'Not _nearly_ as good as it looks on _you_.'

There it was again—a _thump_ in the pit of her stomach, sending it fluttering.

 _So he was flirting now._

Feeling unsettled, Merrin cleared her throat, and tilted her head as she took a step back, shoving the thought stubbornly aside. Even if he _was,_ she hadn't come to Jorrvaskr to be flirted with.

'You said you've been looking for me?'

Again, the moment passed, and Farkas nodded at her, looking enthusiastic.

'Yeah, that's right. I haven't been up for very long, travelling through the night and all. Now I'm starved.'

'Sleeping through the day _can_ do that, you know,' she pointed out wryly.

He laughed. 'Don't I know it. But I was wondering if you'd eaten dinner yet.'

Her stomach chose _that_ moment to growl loudly enough for both of them to hear, and Farkas broke out laughing again. Merrin knew they were both thinking of earlier that morning, and it pulled a snort from her before she smiled begrudgingly.

'Guess that answers my question, huh?'

'I guess it does.'

'So _now_ I'm wondering if you'd be interested in coming with me down to the Mare. We can grab some dinner.'

A second ago he'd been _flirting_ with her, and now, in that light...Merrin put a hand on her hip, and hedged, resolutely ignoring the clenching in her gut.

'It's been a pretty long day—I'm not sure I'd make the best company right now.'

' _Pfft.'_ He waved her words away with one large hand, clearly paying them no mind, and shook his head.

'Please. You'll be having even _longer_ days, before you know it. And I'm sure you're just fine company anyway. Besides – now that you're officially one of us, that makes us shield-siblings. We're gonna have to start getting to know each other sooner or later.'

It was the same thing that Ria had said to her earlier that day. He was smiling at her in an easy sort of way, and then he waggled his eyebrows at her and his tone became teasing.

'And I _know_ you're hungry.'

She couldn't help it—she laughed. He was just so goofy, standing there, and so earnest; there was nothing underlying his offer that she could see. All at once, her hesitation melted, and she smiled at him as she shook her head.

'Fine. You've convinced me, _shield-sibling_. Let's go grab some dinner.'

* * *

The heat of the day had broken hours ago, and the lamp-lit streets were cool and breezy as the two of them made their way to the Plains District.

Merrin had left her hair down to finish drying, and now it cascaded in loose waves down her back and chest, getting played with by the wind. Things were pretty much peaceful in this part of the city; business was done for the day, and families were either eating dinner at home or taking evening strolls together, enjoying the indigo sky with the first of its glimmering stars peeking out.

The silence between them was easy and companionable, but she decided to break it with news.

'So. I finished that job that you asked me to do.'

'That a fact? Already?' He looked pleased, and a little surprised. 'How'd it go?'

'You were right.' She shrugged. 'He was all bark, and no bite. He straightened out when I threatened to kick his ass.'

Farkas grinned. 'You didn't even have to hit him once?'

They were climbing the steps to the Bannered Mare then, and Merrin placed a hand on one of the wooden doors before she turned around with one brow arched.

'I can be very intimidating, when I want to be.'

His eyes twinkled at her in the light spilling from the tavern's front windows. 'That's what I hired you for.'

It was Loredas, and the tavern was appropriately rowdy, filled with farmers and stable hands and all sorts of other thirsty people, talking and laughing and singing along with the bard's spirited rendition of ' _Mead, Mead, Mead'_. They managed to snag a table along the back wall, and a minute later the Redguard serving girl came hurrying up to them, looking harried.

Farkas was obviously familiar with the woman, and he smiled warmly at her.

'Saadia! Business as usual around here, eh?'

'More than enough business for me,' she replied, sounding rueful. 'What'll it be tonight, Farkas?'

'I don't want to be any trouble. Just bring me a plate of whatever's easiest.'

The Redguard smiled gratefully at him. 'Beef hash it is. You're an angel, Farkas. As usual.' Her dark, thickly lashed eyes flicked over to rest on Merrin. 'And for yourself?'

'I've had enough red meat and potato for the day. Would some grilled salmon and leeks be too much trouble?'

The serving girl chuckled. 'Not _too_ much. Coming right up.'

She turned to go, and Farkas put a hand on her arm. 'Oh, and Saadia, two meads – one for me, and one for my Sister here.'

She nodded briskly and disappeared, headed in the direction of a blonde man calling to her from the fire pit.

Farkas leaned forward in his seat, putting one big elbow on the table top, and watched her go for a second before he looked back at Merrin.

'That was Saadia,' he explained. 'Nice girl.'

'She _is_ nice,' Merrin agreed. 'I've stayed here a few nights, and never knew what her name was.' She eyed him carefully. 'She's pretty.'

He nodded easily in agreement. 'Yeah, she is.'

She stared at Farkas a little more pointedly. She didn't really know him – what kind of man he was. He'd pretty obviously flirted with her back in the mead hall, not ten minutes ago. Was he the type to flirt with any woman in front of him? She planned to find out.

'Have you two ever gotten better acquainted?' She asked bluntly. 'Emphasis on the word _better_.'

She wasn't expecting his reaction; he _blushed_.

'Uh...no. No, we haven't.'

She tried to keep her expression even, but the tiniest smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. 'Mind if I ask why not?'

He stared at her for a long second, and it seemed to occur to him that she was amused; he huffed. 'For now, let's just leave it at no.'

'But Farkas, you're the one who _said_ it – now that we're Shield-Siblings, we'll have to get to know each other.'

Before he could make any reply, Saadia returned then with two frothy tankards, plunking them down on the table. She couldn't help but notice that he looked glad for the distraction.

Merrin reached for her coin purse to dig out some septims, but Farkas saw what she was doing and shook his head.

'Nuh uh, no way. This is your first night. First round's on me.' He swiftly pulled out a handful of septims from his own purse and dropped them into Saadia's hand.

'Don't take this woman's money, Saadia. She's stubborn.' He eyed Merrin pointedly. 'Doesn't know when to give up. But tonight's my treat. So.'

Saadia laughed, smiling at both of them before she patted Farkas on the top of his head. 'If you say so, big man. Enjoy the drinks.' In another second, she was gone again.

He hadn't just been talking about the mead; suddenly, Merrin felt foolish for pressing him, and irritated with herself. What business was it of hers, whether or not they'd been together? For a long second, they sat in silence, neither meeting the other's eye. Then Merrin sighed.

'I'm, uh...I'm sorry if I overstepped, Farkas. You're right.' She looked him in the eye. 'We don't know each other. I shouldn't tease like that.'

'No, no, that's not it.' Farkas' brow furrowed, and once again, he was looking perfectly genuine. 'I don't mind teasing. I just don't want people having the wrong idea. Saadia and me, we're just friends. That's all.'

Merrin nodded; she believed him. 'I'm sorry I pried.'

'It's okay, Merrin.' He smiled softly then, and he sounded almost shy. 'I _do_ want us to get to know each other.'

After a second, she smiled uncertainly back at him, feeling relieved that she hadn't really upset him. 'Want to start over again?'

'Yeah.' He grinned. 'Sounds good. There're _way_ more important things to talk about.'

'Oh yeah? Like what?'

'Like you getting paid for a job well done.' He untied a secondary pouch from his belt, and set it on the table in front of her with a jangling plop. 'One hundred gold, all for you.'

She hummed in satisfaction before she grabbed the pouch in one hand, savoring the weight in her palm. The embarrassment she'd felt a minute before faded away.

'Threatening jerks sure does pay well.'

'It does when you're a Companion, at least.'

She set down the coin pouch, picked up her tankard, and took a testing swallow of mead. It was good brew, so she took another.

'It would seem that way. Thanks for the gold. What else do you want to talk about?'

'Oh, I don't know,' he said, a bit too innocently. Then he hit her with a sly grin. 'How about you breaking my brother's wrist?'

She choked on her next swallow of mead, and came up spluttering, looking accusatory.

'How on _Nirn_ do you know about that? You weren't even here!'

His grin widened. 'I have my ways.'

'What ways?' She grumbled. 'Mind reading? You've been asleep most of the day!'

He was clearly enjoying this turn of events, and shrugged benignly as he tried his best to look innocent with eyes that were dancing. 'Guess I've been awake just long enough.'

'Who _told_ you? Definitely not Vilkas.' She scowled. She may not have really known the man, but she'd bet her _life_ that he was too prideful to go walking around freely admitting he'd lost _anything_.

'No, it wasn't Vilkas,' he conceded. At the look on her face, he chuckled and held up his hands.

'Alright, alright. Aela told me. We bumped into each other after I woke up, and she told me about your testing. Everyone was really impressed, especially her. Vilkas is no slouch.'

She brushed the praise aside, and her scowl deepened. She took another gulp of mead, and then banged the tankard down a little too hard. 'I don't want to talk about your brother.'

When she looked back at Farkas, he seemed more solemn than before. When he answered, his voice sounded a little bit sad.

'Can I ask why not?'

She eyed him hard. 'Can you keep it to _yourself_? Or are you the type of twins who share everything?' She grumbled.

'I can keep it to myself.' Now he was looking sort of hurt, and she cursed herself inwardly, and sighed.

'I'm sorry, Farkas. I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustration out on you. I'm just... _really_ frustrated.' She heaved another sigh.

'Your brother...doesn't like me. Normally, I wouldn't care about that sort of thing, but he doesn't just _not_ like me—he seems to have some sort of _problem_ with me. He took one look at me and decided point blank that I wasn't good enough to be a Companion. He underestimated me, without knowing me. And he paid for it.' She hissed out a breath. 'The way he acted, he's lucky I didn't break something more important.'

Farkas had been listening to her as she'd talked, staring at her with serious eyes, and now he nodded and spoke.

'Vilkas...I meant it earlier, when I said he was a good guy. He really is. But he's...' his brow furrowed, and he stared at the ceiling, trying to recall something. 'How did Kodlak put it?...An acquired taste.'

She huffed, and shook her head. 'I'm an adult, Farkas. I wouldn't have had any problem with him at _all,_ if he hadn't had such a problem with _me_ , without even knowing me!'

'That's what I'm trying to get at,' Farkas insisted. 'He _doesn't_ have a problem with you. Not really. He just always has his guard up. He's slow to trust people – thinks that they're more bad than good.'

Merrin took in his words with some difficulty, and then sighed. 'That may be so,' she said slowly. 'But why does he have to be so gods-damned defensive?'

'The Companions are his family,' he replied simply. 'Vilkas may be a bit of a hardass, but he's loyal. Protective. _Any_ time someone new comes along, he's on them like a hawk, making damn sure they're alright before he trusts them with the rest of us. That's just the way he is.'

Her eyes flashed. 'There's no way in hell I'm putting up with him following me around, checking up on me.'

Farkas surprised her by chuckling. 'You probably don't need to worry about that. I love my brother, but he _is_ prideful, _and_ arrogant. Stubborn. Now that you showed him up like that, he's more than likely to keep his distance for awhile.'

' _Good_.' The word came out much fiercer than she'd meant it to. But she couldn't bring herself to say anything else, so she took another awkward gulp of mead.

Farkas was looking a bit sad again. 'We'll see. With a bit of time, maybe you'll change your mind about him. He's worth getting to know.'

Like she had that morning, Merrin felt her prickly irritation softening; in its place seeped a bit of logic. One day _wasn't_ enough time to really judge someone...and who would know Vilkas better than his twin? Farkas seemed to be confident that the two of them could get along, in time.

'...Maybe we'll see,' she muttered begrudgingly.

Her words were rewarded by a dazzling smile from Farkas, and he reached across the table and nudged her teasingly.

'That's the spirit. Give us time, Merrin, and we'll become _your_ family, too. Just think about it.' Then he grabbed his own tankard and took a long drink, so that he missed her expression at the words he'd said, that made her insides tremble with unexpected emotion. A second later Saadia came back into view, carrying two plates at chest level, and _that_ Farkas noticed.

'I'll drop it now, about Vilkas. Let's enjoy this food!'

* * *

And they did; for the rest of the time that they spent in the tavern, conversation flowed easily between them, and they had a good time. Surprisingly, Farkas didn't ask any questions that she didn't want to answer – she didn't have to head him off or supply a half-truth once. He asked instead about how her day had gone, and about working with Eorlund; she found out fast that he was an excellent listener.

He laughed when she described the look on Elrindir's face when she'd confronted him, and again when she complained about Eorlund not having a single apron to work in.

And then when she'd finished her stories, he'd asked her how she was liking being a Companion so far.

'It's hard to tell how I feel,' she'd admitted honestly. 'So far, I'm hopeful, but it's so much to take in. A week ago, I was...' She'd shook her head and bitten her tongue, and then changed the subject with a question. 'What about you? How do _you_ like being a Companion?'

Farkas had grinned, and crossed his arms over his chest. 'I wouldn't trade it for the world.'

He'd looked proud when he'd said it, and it had caused her to remember something else she'd been wondering.

'How long have the two of you been Companions?'

He'd laughed at that. 'Officially? Since we came of age. But the two of us have been running around Jorrvaskr since we were just a couple of knee-high whelps.'

He'd gone on to explain to her that their father had been a Companion, himself, and that as far as Vignar Gray-Mane knew, they were the youngest people to ever be made Companions.

He hadn't said anything else about his father, and she hadn't dared to ask; he wasn't living in Jorrvaskr, and that didn't bode well, so she'd left it alone.

In the end, he'd insisted on paying for everything – dinner and several rounds of drinks – and wouldn't accept a single coin that she tried to shove at him. She'd spluttered, insisting that it was all too much, dismayed at the unexpected wave of generosity that she'd found in Jorrvaskr.

'When will _I_ ever get to actually pay for something?!'

But Farkas had just laughed at her, and clapped her on the back.

'Oh, don't worry. Keep sayin' things like that, and you'll have Torvar up your ass in no time, asking you to spot him 'just one more' drink.'

The bard had been performing _'Ragnar The Red'_ when they finally left the Bannered Mare, and Farkas had loudly hummed the tune as they made their way back to Jorrvaskr through mostly empty streets. She hadn't been so relaxed or in such a good mood since before she'd taken her last job back in Morrowind, and she laughed easily when he finished his rendition at the front doors of the mead hall and tipped into an exaggerated bow.

Now they were standing there in the shadow of the threshold, staring at one another.

'Thank you, Farkas.' The words tumbled out of her.

'For what?' His smiling face was flushed slightly ruddy from drink, and his eyes were shining even in the shadows, so that they drew in her gaze. Silvery, blue...captivating.

'For tonight. For dinner. I had a lot of fun with you,' she owned. The mead was swimming through her pleasantly, and it made it easier to be honest. 'I was nervous to join the Companions, and you've made me feel...welcome.'

'You _are_ ,' he replied, and sounded eager when he said it. 'I had a great time tonight, too.' This last part seemed to be said more to himself, and he shook his head as he smiled. Then he met her gaze again.

'Any time you need _anything_ around here, Merrin, you feel free to let me know.'

This time she couldn't ignore the hard thumping of her heart, and she just nodded mutely, at a loss for any good reply. Almost as if he could hear the thumping, Farkas' smile grew even wider. She thought for a second that he might've been blushing, but it was impossible for her to tell in the shadowy doorway, and with the flush from the mead already tinting his face. Then he straightened up, and suddenly seemed a bit more business-like.

'Anyway, come on. We'd better get inside. _I'm_ not tired, but I bet _you_ are. Like you said, you've had a long day.'

It was true; she _was_ tired again. Feeling an odd prick of disappointment, she nodded at him and placed her hand on one of the oaken doors.

'Alright. After you.'

The mead hall had been mostly empty all day, but now it was a different story; Tilma was curled up in one of the armchairs in the corners, sipping from a steaming earthenware mug and intently reading from a leather-bound book. Ria, Athis and Torvar were sitting around the far edge of the great table – Ria and Torvar seemingly locked in some sort of passionate debate, and Athis watching them with amusement while quietly eating a bowl of soup. He was the first to notice them come in, but when he nudged Ria's shoulder and she looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of them, and she waved them over.

'There you are! Both of you, get over here, I need your help to convince Torvar that he's wrong – he thinks that it's more impressive to kill a slaughterfish than a cliffracer!'

'It's _her_ who's wrong,' Torvar shot back. 'When's the last time you saw a _cliffracer_ make off with someone's balls? Hmm? That's what I thought! Slaughterfish are tough little bastards.'

Merrin laughed, but shook her head. 'I'm not getting involved in this. My bed is calling my name. Good luck in the battle for dominance, though.'

As she waved goodnight and headed for the stairs, Farkas pulled up the chair beside Athis and sat down with the other three, and the argument started back up.

'Farkas, explain to this numbskull how it is, in fact, _more_ difficult to shoot a fast-moving target out of the air. Back me up.'

'Nah, man. You've gotta think about your balls!'

'I don't know, Ria,' Farkas drawled. 'A man _does_ need to protect his assets.'

'I'll be coming for _all_ of your assets if you lot don't pipe the hell down!'

This last was from Tilma, who hadn't even bothered to look up from her book. 'I've had to re-read this page twice 'cause of your racket. Slaughterfish will be the _least_ of your worries if I need to read it again!'

* * *

Compared to the noise of the mead hall, the sleeping quarters were calm and quiet. Again, Merrin didn't encounter anybody else before slipping into the recruit's room; Vilkas, Aela, and Skjor were nowhere to be seen – maybe in their own rooms. She had no idea where Njada might've been, but she was glad that it wasn't the two of them alone in the room.

She was in the process of turning down her sheets for the night when there was a knock on the door. She jumped, her first thoughts being that she _was_ going to be stuck alone with Njada, afterall. But she realized in the same moment that that didn't make any sense; Njada wouldn't have knocked.

So she was apprehensive when she opened the door, not knowing who to expect. The person actually standing there was the one she'd expected least of all.

'Pardon me. I'm not disturbing you, am I, Merrin?'

She gasped in surprise. 'Harbinger!'

Kodlak White-Mane was standing in front of her, with candlelight playing over his long face and beard. The armor of the Circle had been replaced for the night with a loose pair of cotton pants and a woolen tunic, but he seemed no less commanding without it. He was looking her over seriously, with his stormy grey eyes looking thoughtful, and now a hint of a smile played around his lips.

'You can just call me Kodlak, if you'd like.' He said it kindly, and a little ruefully.

She could hardly believe he was there.

'To what do I owe the visit, Harb—Kodlak?' She hadn't known when she'd next see the Harbinger, due to their difference in rank; she'd never imagined that _he_ would come to _her_. Remembering her manners through her shock, she took a hasty step back from the door and opened it wide. 'Could I invite you in?'

'Actually, I was wondering if you would mind joining me in my study, for a conversation.' Now, he smiled at her for real. 'We've not had a chance to speak properly, yet.'

'But, I'm...just a new recruit,' Merrin fumbled. 'Surely, you have more important things to do?'

He chuckled at that, and clasped his hands behind his back before he answered, again sounding kind.

'My dear girl, you have the wrong idea about me. I am the Harbinger of the Companions; it's my role and my pleasure to keep company with any who would take the time. What good is a Harbinger who doesn't interact with his fellows – especially the new ones?' His grey eyes were shining now. 'I am not a statue, made to look stern and sit in my quarters. How dull and stiff my life would be, if I didn't call on those around me!'

Merrin hesitated, but she could see plainly that he was genuine; after a second, she relented.

'I...I see. I hadn't really thought about it that way. In that case, if you would have me...' she straightened up. 'I would love the chance to speak with you.' Again, his presence elicited a strong desire for his approval, and she tried to stop stammering and tamp it down. _Damn these nerves!_

He nodded his shaggy head, seeming pleased. 'Excellent. Follow me then, if you would.'

She started following a step behind him down the hallway, but almost immediately he turned and asked her to walk along beside him. She did so, nervously, and had to resist the urge to wring her hands together as they walked; she had no idea what to expect from this conversation.

'Please, make yourself comfortable.' When they entered into his study, Kodlak gestured with a hand to the same chair that Vilkas had occupied when she'd entered Jorrvaskr the day before; she sank into it slowly, feeling somewhat surreal. He offered her a goblet of red wine, which she politely turned down, and then poured one for himself, claiming that 'a glass or two in the evenings helped to calm the thoughts of the day.'

Kodlak seemed to sense her nerves, and he smiled at her again before he reached out and patted her hand where it gripped the arm of her seat – a very fatherly gesture.

'And please, _do_ try to relax, Merrin. This is a social visit, not an interrogation.'

'I'm sorry.' She bit out a sigh. 'Pardon my nervousness, please. I just wasn't expecting to be called on by you.' She offered him a small smile, full of chagrin, and then managed to chuckle at herself. 'It's been a very full two days.'

'There's nothing to pardon.' He returned her smile knowingly. 'We were all new once. That's mostly what I wanted to discuss with you—how are you settling in?'

'Truthfully?' She stared at him for a long second, and then relented again. 'Gradually. Being here has been...quite the transition. Some aspects feel more natural than others. But it's been such a short period of time, with so much crammed into it, that it barely feels real when I stop moving.'

He nodded at her, considering, before he spoke. 'I appreciate your being candid. And I'm not surprised that you're feeling somewhat overwhelmed. The Companions can be an...overwhelming bunch,' he said, sounding fond. 'And it takes time to find one's place among them.' He picked up his goblet and slowly swirled the contents, before lifting it to his nose, sniffing, and taking a sip. Then he eyed her over the rim, and smiled again.

'But I have every confidence that you _will_ find your place.'

His words flustered her, but she nodded anyway. 'Thank you...Kodlak.'

'It's as much an observation as faith.' The older man took another sip of his wine, and then returned it to the table between them. He rested against the back of his chair, loosely crossing his legs at the ankle, and as he had when she'd first met him, he seemed to radiate elegance and poise. 'I was sorry to miss your testing, but heard about it afterwards. If your performance there was any indication, then you certainly have the skills you need to make your mark.'

She stared at him, confused now. _Did he mean...?_

As if he could hear her confused thoughts, the Harbinger nodded. 'It was Vilkas who informed me. After your testing, he came back to me to report on how you'd fared. He spoke highly of your skill.'

The words gave her a serious shock, that she couldn't hide; her brain didn't want to absorb what Kodlak had said, and she nearly told him as much. Instead, she was quiet for several seconds, before she finally answered in a dubious voice.

'Really?'

There it was again; the twinkling in the Harbinger's stormy grey eyes that could only be described as mischievous. He chuckled, and laced his hands together over his stomach.

'I wouldn't say it otherwise. You seem surprised to hear this, my girl.'

'I...wasn't sure _what_ Vilkas thought, when he tested me,' Merrin hedged. The last thing she wanted to do just then was tell the Harbinger that a member of his Circle seemed to dislike her.

Kodlak didn't seem at all surprised. 'That is Vilkas' way,' he nodded. 'He's a guarded man, quiet and intellectual. His innermost thoughts are often his alone. But he is also honest and fair, and I trust his judgments to be apt when I can't make my own.'

Merrin sat there in silence, staring at the tabletop, unsure of what to say. Kodlak spoke of Vilkas with obvious fondness, and he clearly trusted him. And his words were a close match to what Farkas had said earlier, back in the Bannered Mare; that Vilkas may have been stand-offish, but was really a decent man. She grimaced.

'I will do my best to prove myself to you, as my time with the Companions continues, Kodlak. Thank you for your faith in me.'

He laughed at her words, which she didn't expect, and when she looked back up at him, he was actually grinning at her.

'You young ones are all the same,' he mused warmly. 'Deferring where you oughtn't defer. But I'm sure you'll understand in time. It isn't _me_ that you should strive to prove yourself to – it's _yourselves_. A Harbinger is only meant to provide guidance. I am not who you answer to.'

She faltered – was that not precisely what she'd been doing for the past four years? Proving herself, _to_ herself? Wasn't that the force that drove her out of the Bannered Mare and through the front doors of Jorrvaskr? Or was this something else entirely? What was she trying to prove – and to whom? Suddenly, she wasn't sure.

Her wondering was interrupted by the mellow timber of Kodlak's voice.

'There is another question I would ask you, girl.'

'You can ask whatever you'd like.'

He was looking pensive again, eyeing her over the rim of his wine goblet. 'What is it that made you seek us out? Why have you sought to become a Companion?'

He hadn't asked her when she'd approached him initially, but she wasn't really surprised that he was asking now; Kodlak was obviously a philosophical man. She decided to answer him honestly.

'I've _always_ wanted to be one. For almost as long as I can remember. I spent years of my life occupied with different things...but now my path has led me here, and I'm glad of it. Being a Companion would be fulfilling a dream, for me.'

This answer seemed to satisfy Kodlak; he nodded, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

'And what path was it that led you here? What of your life _before_ you came to our hall?'

Instantly, she tensed up. She hadn't told anyone about the circumstances that had led her here—Ria and Aela had both asked, and she'd shot them both down. Could she safely do the same with the Harbinger?

'I would...rather not discuss that, Harbinger. If you don't mind,' Merrin said, slowly and firmly.

Again, he didn't seem surprised, but he did look a bit more serious as he went back to swirling his wine.

'Your business is your own – I have no intention of prying. But may I ask _why_ you don't wish to discuss it?'

She sighed. 'Because, it's of a...personal and unsavory nature. That's why.'

Several seconds passed in silence. Then Kodlak put his goblet down. He was eyeing her very carefully now; Merrin didn't know what to expect, and so she eyed him back just as intently.

'I respect your wishes. But there _is_ one thing I'd like to know, now that you're staying with us.'

She remained silent and watchful.

'Are you here because you're in some kind of trouble? Are you being...pursued, or something of that ilk?' Now he seemed a bit chagrined, but he pressed on anyway. 'Have you run afoul of the Hold's authorities?'

 _Yes. I don't know. And they seem to think so._ The answers resounded in her head, but she didn't give any of them voice. Instead, she chose her reply very carefully.

'I won't deny that I've seen trouble in my recent past...and it _did_ contribute to my decision to come here. But I foresee no way that it could impact my time spent among the Companions – and I _haven't_ committed any crime, in this Hold or any other.' On _that_ point, she was making absolutely sure to set the record straight, Empire be damned. She sat tall and straight-backed in the chair, and couldn't keep herself from stubbornly setting her jaw.

At length, Kodlak sighed, and his gaze dropped to the tabletop. 'A shrouded answer. But it reassures me, for now.'

For a moment, there was silence in the study. Then his steely eyes lifted to meet hers, and they were piercing in their intensity as he spoke again – silvery and bright, pinning her gaze.

'And know this, girl. Your time here has been brief so far, but you've proven yourself to be honorable and skilled. You've made the choice to become one of us, and Jorrvaskr's arms are open to you. Whatever the trouble you don't wish to speak of, _know_ that your brothers and sisters in arms will stand beside you and fight as one, should it ever darken _this_ threshold. In _this_ family, no one ever stands alone.'

 _Family_. She hadn't been expecting anything like the Harbinger's words, and they hit her hard. In a flash, she thought of the dream she'd had in the Bannered Mare, of the Companions fighting by her side. She thought of Farkas, sharing his breakfast and making her laugh, of Ria showing her the city and holding her hand and letting her borrow her clothes. Of Torvar saying that they'd be friends, in no time at all.

It had been a long time since she'd felt really welcomed, and to feel it now overwhelmed her. She could barely swallow over the lump of emotion in her throat, and when she answered Kodlak, it was in a whisper.

'...Thank you, Kodlak. You're all...too generous.'

'We've all worked together to build something wonderful,' was his gentle reply. 'But I won't take up anymore of your time, for tonight – I can see I've given you much to think about.' He smiled at her.

'Thank you, for indulging an old man's love of conversation.'

'It was my pleasure,' she answered in a rush. 'Thank you for asking me here.'

Kodlak pushed away from the table, and she followed suit. Then they rose in unison, and he walked her to the door of his study. 'Can I count on the pleasure of speaking with you again?' he asked.

She blinked up at him, surprised. 'Of course. I would like that very much.'

His smile widened, and his eyes twinkled as he chuckled. 'Alright then. Until next time...sleep well, girl.'

She wasn't so sure that she would; as she left Kodlak's study and walked back down the quiet hall, her muscles were aching and her mind was buzzing.

But she would do her best.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Hello, and welcome back for the tenth chapter of A Warrior Rises! Are you enjoying the story so far? Let me know! I post here as well as on AO3 under the username gwap_queen, AND I'm on twitter! Come to twitter gwap_queen00 to message me, or just enjoy my jokes, memes, and cat pics! I'd really love to hear from you guys!**

And so, it happened: despite the horrific ordeal she'd survived and the surrealism of her life changing course so abruptly, Merrin did her best to get comfortable in Jorrvaskr – and it wasn't long before her efforts bore fruit. As the days ticked by one after the other and the back half of Last Seed slowly dawned into Hearthfire, the beginnings of a pattern started to form – a rhythm to how she spent her time.

Most mornings she rose before the sun, and it wasn't long before she could creep through the dark of the newblood's room without any problems. She loved the peace and quiet of the pre-dawn, but waking up so early ended up having another benefit; Tilma had noticed her up and about, and before too many days had passed, the old woman had asked Merrin if she would mind helping out in the kitchen, to make breakfasts - 'since you're up anyway, and all.' She had agreed, and every early morning since had been spent getting to know the tiny firecracker as they kneaded dough and fried up eggs.

The hearty breakfasts were a blessing, because Merrin's days were absolutely full to bursting. Ria, Torvar and Athis had made good on their offers to train with her, and most days she'd spend time in the yard, going blade to blade with one of them while the other two egged on whoever was fighting. Ria was even brave enough to spar her hand to hand – and the willowy woman was stronger than she looked! Between the three of them, she'd yet to use a practice dummy once.

As for Njada, the pale-haired woman seemed to be avoiding her – an arrangement that was suiting the both of them just fine.

Several hours of every day were devoted to meeting with Eorlund at the Skyforge, and working on her armor; work that was tiring in more ways than one. As she worked with the smith, her suspicions were confirmed. She found out that he was a headstrong perfectionist, who always pushed her to give her best – and was quick to call her out if she gave less. They bickered sometimes, but there was an odd kind of joy in it that she hadn't expected, and she found herself liking the old smith more and more with every passing day. And staying on her toes was well worth the effort – the armor was shaping up nicely, and each day she left the forge sweating but satisfied.

On one of the earlier days, she'd gone straight from the forge to the baths, and then she'd gone shopping. She'd arrived from Riverwood with almost nothing, and the market place had become much more familiar once she'd given it a thorough once-over. She couldn't mix potions – something Ria had _tsked_ at when she'd found out – so she had to rely on Arcadia to brew her whatever she needed. When she eventually went to Belethor's shop, the list was even longer; she'd dropped a _pile_ of gold on all sorts of things she'd needed, like several changes of clothing, a better rucksack, a cookpot for the field, and a brand new bedroll.

The gold had made her a welcome sight as far as Belethor was concerned, but the feeling was far from mutual; the guard that was posted in the market had warned her that Belethor was a 'sleazy' man, and Merrin found out for herself that it was true. When she'd turned to leave the shop with all her freshly wrapped parcels, he'd made some leering comment after her about being willing to buy her relatives.

Needless to say, she'd yet to go back there.

Aela had checked in on her every couple of days, and when she'd seen that Merrin was better prepared, she'd started sending her out on jobs.

They were _simple_ jobs, of course; her armor was still a raggedy, sad affair, and it wouldn't be safe for her to stray far from Whiterun in it. But they were _still_ jobs, and they still paid septims; several times now, she'd left the city with Torvar or Ria or Athis in tow, and they'd ventured out to the nearby farms to clear out pests – skeevers that were trying to make a warren in someone's cellar, or a pack of wolves that were picking off sheep, getting fat on summer meat.

They'd usually come trailing back into Whiterun as the sun was starting to set, but Merrin's days were far from over; between cooking, training, smithing, and working, there were always chores to be done, too. She had to grease her brand new boots, clean her armor, and maintain her bow. Her waterskin had to be cleaned out each day, and when it came to laundry in Jorrvaskr, it was every man and woman for themselves.

It was the busiest she'd been in a _long_ time, and there wasn't much room for socializing, but somehow, she still managed. One night after about a week, she'd been able to take Adrienne up on her offer, and she'd had a lovely dinner with the smith and her husband in their home. The both of them were entertaining story-tellers, and as it turned out, Ulfberth was quite the cook – she'd wandered home late, more than a _little_ impaired, and she now considered the two of them friends.

Ria had become a friend, too; her suspicions about the girl were proving correct. Between training, working jobs, and Ria just offering to lend a hand with anything she needed, she spent more time with the Imperial than any other newblood. In that time, she was learning things. She'd discovered that Ria was just a year younger than her, at nine and twenty, and that they had a lot in common – aside from joining the Companions for the same reason. Both of them favored the autumn weather to the heat of the summer. Both of them loved spooky ghost stories. And both of them had a serious sweet tooth; it turned out that it had been _Ria's_ boiled creme treat she'd stolen on her very first day, and when Ria had found out that it had been _Merrin_ who'd taken it, she'd burst out laughing.

But nobody took up as much of her _spare_ time as Farkas. Like Ria, it seemed he'd decided right away that he liked her—and Merrin was glad, because the feeling was mutual. In fact, in the couple of weeks that she'd been at Jorrvaskr, the two of them were on their way to becoming fast friends – something she _hadn't_ expected.

Farkas didn't seem to have any of his brother's reservations, and he took it upon himself to seek her out whenever he had the time. He was a member of the Circle, and so he had more responsibilities than her, but a day rarely passed where she didn't see him. Merrin liked these visits; they would sit against the back wall of the training yard, or walk through the Wind District, and talk about whatever came to mind. He was quick to smile, to joke around, and she liked the way his eyes sparkled when he made her laugh. Some nights, they would go down to the Bannered Mare together, often with other newbloods in tow, and have dinner and drinks by the fire.

Three times now he'd challenged her to a game of cards, and three times now she'd won by a landslide. But Farkas never seemed to mind; as she got to know him better, she was less and less surprised. She was learning fast that Farkas' intimidating size was fairly at odds with his genial personality.

The only other person Merrin really had any time for was their Harbinger; in the last couple of weeks, she'd managed a few more visits to his study, to drink dry red wine and talk about their days, and she had quickly grown fond of the older man. With his braided beard and dreamy eyes and his love of conversation, he'd reminded her of her own father. And if appearances counted for anything, he seemed to greatly enjoy _her_ company, too. When the candles on his desk were burning low and the sleeping quarters had fallen silent, she'd bid him a huge, yawning goodnight, and he'd wave her off with a wide smile and twinkling eyes.

There was something ailing Kodlak, and she could tell it caused him no small discomfort; sometimes they'd be in the midst of conversation, and he'd suddenly grip his legs and grimace, and then down his cup of wine before straightening up and schooling his features with a sigh. But so far she hadn't dared to ask what was wrong – if he wanted her to know, he'd tell her.

By the end of each day, Merrin was exhausted; she would fall into her bed in the corner the second she'd wriggled out of her breeches, and was usually fast asleep within minutes. She didn't even have the energy to read some before bed—something she'd been doing since she could remember, even when she'd been on the road. And that was a shame, since she'd noticed early on that Jorrvaskr was _full_ of interesting-looking books.

Farkas had ended up being right about Vilkas; since her testing, she'd barely even seen him. He seemed to be keeping a careful distance, so that even when they _were_ in the same space, they didn't interact. But there were two things that she'd observed.

The first was that Vilkas seemed to be the one who balanced the Companion's accounts. Several times in the last two weeks, she'd seen him talking to clients and taking payments from them out on the backyard patio, and twice she'd seen him at the table, poring over a ledger of numbers, entering sums.

The second was that he was watching her. Every so often, she would feel eyes on her, and sometimes when she whipped around or lifted her head she would catch him staring at her from across the room, over the edge of some enormous book or the rim of his tankard. As soon as she met his gaze, he would look away, silvery blue eyes narrowing, and either go back to what he'd been doing or get up and leave.

But she gave Vilkas minimal thought; so long as he was leaving her alone instead of making her life difficult, then she didn't really care that he stared. He could think what he wanted of her, so long as he kept it to himself.

She might have been doing her best to settle in to her new role and surroundings, but that didn't mean that she'd forgotten the old ones; far from it. Not a day went by that she didn't find herself thinking of Morrowind, of the people she'd gotten to be friends with. Of Dalan Dufont, and what he might've been saying about her. Of the potential danger she could be in. Of the dragon.

And there were frequent enough reminders of it all here at Jorrvaskr that even if she _was_ trying to forget, she couldn't. In the last two weeks, she'd had to dodge every single _one_ of the Companions _and_ Eorlund when they'd asked her at some point or another what she was doing before she'd come to Whiterun. She'd ended up telling some of them that she'd been a mercenary, but that was all.

Some of them accepted her reticence easily, but others grumbled – Torvar especially. It didn't really surprise her; it hadn't taken very long for Merrin to figure out that Torvar was a terrible gossip. Pretty much _any_ secret was a secret he was interested in knowing.

And there had been much worse. A tenday after the attack on Helgen, ragged-looking guards had come marching through Whiterun to Dragonsreach. They'd delivered the official report of the destruction's aftermath to the Jarl; Balgruuf had wanted to keep the situation contained, but his eaves-dropping servants had other ideas, and in the way of all important news, it had spread like wildfire through most of the city within a day.

The news had hit Merrin hard that evening over dinner in Jorrvaskr; according to Torvar—who had gotten the scoop _straight_ from the Jarl's chambermaid's sister—Helgen had been laid to waste. There wasn't a single building that hadn't been torched or smashed, and most of them were reduced to rubble. The corpses had taken days to retrieve, and apparently accounted for over _half the village's_ population, and a whole slew of Legion soldiers too. They'd been identified as best as possible, but the entire process had been a nightmare – too many people, burned too badly. A partial list of known casualties would be posted at the city barracks in a day or so's time, with copies being couried to every major Hold. As for the village itself, it was to be abandoned – the guards had assessed that there was simply too much damage to be worth a rebuild, and the Jarl had agreed when he'd heard the extent of it.

A day had passed, and a sheaf of parchment had been posted in the barracks; Merrin had slipped out of Jorrvaskr unnoticed, and joined a throng of people all pushing to read through the list of names.

They'd been unfamiliar to her, and she'd sifted through them looking for just one – Dalan Dufont.

She hadn't found it.

Not seeing that name nailed to the wall had dropped Merrin's stomach into her feet. She'd been waiting anxiously for news to arrive, and there still wasn't anything definitive. Had Dalan survived the dragon's attack? Had he escaped to Morrowind? Was he laying low somewhere in the province? Injured? Plotting revenge? Or was he a burnt-out corpse on the outskirts of Helgen, too badly charred or smashed up to be identified?

Dead, or alive? Dead, or alive? If he _was_ alive, what did that mean for her? Every worry she'd had in the Bannered Mare had come fluttering back up her throat like bile.

She hadn't even been with the Companions a week when the news had come to Whiterun – everything had been up in the air. But she hadn't wanted to think about the implications then, the possibilities. So she'd thrown herself into life at Jorrvaskr instead.

* * *

It was on the sixth of Hearthfire that she and Eorlund put the finishing touches on her suit of armor. It was a Sundas, and most of the other Companions were sleeping in; Merrin hadn't felt like training alone, so she'd decided to meet Eorlund at the forge earlier than usual.

He'd been pleased to see her, and had announced that if they put their backs into it, they could be finished in a few hours' time. She could see that he was right, and so they'd gotten down to it.

And now, it was spread out in front of them, fully finished, laid out on the stone workbench and shining in the morning sun. Both of them were standing there looking it over, comically mirroring the same proud stance, with arms crossed over chests. After several moments, Eorlund turned to her.

'So then, girl, will you be puttin' it on? Or just starin' at it?'

Merrin snorted, and rolled her eyes. 'Someone's impatient, I see.' But she was grinning as she said it.

She _did_ put it on, then, and didn't need any help from Eorlund – another reason why she'd made this design. As soon as she was finished, she started moving around, testing the motion, getting the feel of the suit. She'd worn each piece many times as they'd shaped them, but never all of them together like this.

She was thrilled with the results.

Her helmet was fully steel, slightly arched in shape to encourage glancing, with an open face but a long, tapered nasal. Best of all, it had a skirt of mail around its bottom, carefully riveted at every quarter inch, dripping down fine but strong, to protect the back and sides of her neck.

Her breastplate was a simple, streamlined affair, with hardly any etched design at all – she hadn't wanted to take the time to do more. It was secured with ties along either side that she could fiddle with herself, and had been tempered for maximum strength and resiliency. They'd riveted on a pair of steel pauldrons as well, and now they sat over her shoulders in a sweeping shape. They had finessed the plackart by using rivets—such handy things!—to attach it to the plate, so that the fit was as flexible as it could possibly be, and she was rewarded with an essentially full range of motion in it.

Her faulds was made not of steel, but leather – a skirt of thick vertical strips, similar to what the Imperials wore, and laced tightly in the back with gut cord. This too had been a part of her design, and it shone through brilliantly; it offered basically all the same protection as steel to her thighs and groin, but was as quiet as a whisper, compared to the obnoxious clanking of steel lames.

For her legs, there were chausses made of fine, intricate mail that extended to just above the knee; it was truly fortunate that Eorlund had the mail already made and waiting for a project, because otherwise, the suit could have taken them months. Eorlund's supreme skill and ideas had also come through on the poleyns; perhaps his best adjustment to her design, they were expertly riveted directly to the bottoms of her chausses, and she'd no longer have to tie them with cord or buckle them with a strap, and worry about them slipping and leaving her knees unprotected.

For footwear, she got to wear her new leather boots, and over top protecting her shins were a pair of splintmail greaves, secured with straps and buckles around the calves.

Last were the rerebraces and vambraces; both were also made of sturdy leather, and tied up along the back of her arms with more gut cord. The vambraces had been fitted with splintmail for extra protection (at Eorlund's insistence) and were riveted to the upper edges of the leather demi-gaunts. As she slipped them on and secured them, she sighed in satisfaction; they were a snug, perfect fit, and each demi-gaunt came down in a diamond point over the back of her hand, to rest at the base of her middle finger.

Eorlund had tried several more times as they'd done their work to talk her out of them—so she was more than surprised when she turned to face him, and saw him holding out an archer's finger guard.

'Eorlund...what..?'

'I made this for you a while back, when I had a spare minute.' He huffed. 'You were dead-set on them demis, and I figured...well, here you go.' He shoved the guard into her open hand. 'Try it on.'

Merrin looked down at the guard in her hand, and blinked in surprise. It was finely made, with deerskin as soft as butter for her two pulling fingers that would trail down the back of her hand, sewn like a cuff around a bracelet of soft braided flax that had been knotted to loosen or tighten at the pull of two strings.

It was a beautiful piece, and as she slipped it onto her dominant hand and fitted it under the demi-gaunt, another lump of emotion was threatening to choke her. Her eyes were actually misty as she looked back up at the older man.

'You made this for _me_?' Merrin croaked. 'As a _surprise_?'

'Well.' Now Eorlund was looking terribly bashful; at the sight of her shining brown eyes, he'd cast his blue ones down to the ground, and a furious blush was creeping up past his beard. 'You were gonna need one. Didn't see the sense in makin' you shop around – figured I could do it instead.'

Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and she grinned. 'I _love_ it,' she exclaimed loudly. 'I'll wear it until it falls apart. And then I'll take it back to you to fix it, so I can wear it some more. _Thank_ you, Eorlund. It's a beautiful gift.'

Eorlund blushed an even deeper shade of red, but his eyes were twinkling as he shooed away her words.

'It was nothin'! I'm glad you like it. Now quit puffin' me up, girl, and tell me what you think of the rest of it.'

'You mean you don't know just by looking at it?' Merrin arched her brows, and shot him another grin. 'I think you and I are a damn good team. We do excellent work together.'

It was true; the entire suit of armor was a work of art. Each piece met seamlessly with the next, working together without a hitch, so that she could move freely and gracefully. They hugged her exactly the way they should. And the work was beautiful—the leather expertly stitched and oiled, the genuine Skyforge steel buffed and shining in the light, looking elegant and ever so slightly blue in color. The way he'd attached the plackart to the breastplate made it look like a parting curtain.

She didn't need a mirror to examine the results of their hard work; the armor she was wearing was a serious upgrade, even from what she'd left Morrowind in.

'Aye. That we do.' He'd crossed his arms tightly over his bare chest, and now he was surveying the suit with an expert eye as she moved. When she picked up a sword from the workbench and gave it a few swings to test her motion, he nodded approvingly. Then and _only_ then did he allow himself a smile.

'Well, then. I'd say our work here is done, newblood. You're outfitted well.'

'Thanks to you. Skyforge steel...all my own...and partially made with my own two hands. You've made a fellow smith _very_ happy, Eorlund. I can't thank you enough.' She allowed herself a single, frivolous twirl, and hugged herself with glee before she turned back to him and grinned.

'Now, let's talk shop. How much do I owe you?'

For a long moment, Eorlund looked at her like she had three heads, and then he snorted and shook his own. 'You don't owe me anything.'

'You can't be serious. This armor is expensive!' Now it was _her_ turn to eye the smith like _he_ was crazy; she knew from experience that a suit like this cost hundreds of septims in materials alone—never mind the blacksmith's _time_. She shook her head at him resolutely.

'No way. I went in to this assuming that I'd be paying for this armor, and you aren't changing my mind. We worked on it together, so I figured we could negotiate on labor costs, but the materials...' she eyed him pointedly. 'You can't possibly expect me to just _take_ this from you.'

'There you go again, with the fancy fussin'.' He eyed her calmly, and then shrugged. 'Way I see it, girl, you don't got any choice. I'm not taking your gold.'

'Why _not_?' She asked, exasperated. 'Who _pays_ you for this, then? Who makes sure you don't lose your shirt by giving away free suits of armor?'

Now Eorlund's arms were crossed again, and he eyed her steadily. 'Kodlak pays me a stipend. Not that it's any of _your_ business, girl. I serve the Companions of Jorrvaskr – makin' arms and armor for the newbloods an' repairing whatever breaks is what I _do_. I don't expect payment on the spot. And most of em' like it that way.' Unexpectedly, he chuckled.

'Most new'uns come in here, they jump for joy when I set them up with a free new suit – couldn't afford to pay me, anyway. I doubt _you_ have the gold for it right now, either.'

Merrin pinked up, because he'd hit the nail on the head, and grumbled. ' _That's_ none of _your_ business. I could set up payments, if you'd _let_ me. I just want—'

He put up a hand to stop her, and chuckled again. 'That wasn't my point. My _point_ is that my work for the Companions doesn't get paid for by whelps. And that most of em' like it that way. You seem to just be a special kind of stubborn, girl. Have since I met you.'

She stared him down, mouth open but with no reply, for several seconds. Then she deflated.

'It just doesn't seem fair,' she mumbled. 'I want to make sure you get what you deserve for this work.'

Eorlund smiled then. 'You're a sweet one, Merrin. I'll tell you what. You're so worried about paying me? How about you do me a favor and _pay_ me a visit every now and again?'

Merrin looked at him uncertainly, and he continued.

'It's solitary work, up here at the forge. Most times, that's how I like it, but every now an' then, I could use some company. And you've got a good head on your shoulders. Why don't you make a point of droppin' by sometimes, and we'll call it even?'

She eyed him for a long moment, but then sighed when she saw he was serious. 'If that's really what you want, then I'd be more than happy to spend time here with you. But I feel like I'm _definitely_ coming away with the better end of this deal,' she ended on a mutter.

'There's a girl.' Eorlund clapped her on the shoulder, and then turned away to clear the forge. After a couple of seconds, she had an idea.

'Say, Eorlund...what do you like to drink? And...what's your favorite food?'

He turned back to her, looking confused. 'Why do you ask?'

'I just figured, if I'm going to come and see you from time to time, it wouldn't hurt if I brought things with me. Some lunch now and again...some cake...some of whatever you like to drink,' she said innocently. 'Everybody eats.'

'Even people who weren't born yesterday.' He was trying to look stern, but the effect was ruined by his lips quirking involuntarily upward. 'You're not paying me with gold, and you're not paying me with _food_ , either.'

'But, Eorlund!' She groaned. 'I just want to—'

'Uh-uh. I'm not hearing it.' He shook his head, and smiled for real. 'Go on, get out of here. I've got other jobs lined up, and can't focus with your jawin'. Go test out the armor.'

* * *

Most of the others had woken up by the time Eorlund sent her packing, and she _did_ end up testing the armor, by training with Ria and Athis in the yard. It held up beautifully, and both of them were still complimenting her on it and reminiscing about getting _their_ first sets of Skyforge armor when they headed into the mead hall for some lunch.

Things typically moved a bit slower on a Sundas at Jorrvaskr, and its inhabitants were usually less busy than on any other day of the week. As a result, they had a full house for lunch—something relatively rare—and the great table was already filling up when they came sauntering in. Kodlak was sitting in his usual place, at the left side head of the table, and the other members of the Circle were sitting clustered around him at either side. Farkas turned at the sound of the doors being opened, and when he saw who it was, his face lit up and he waved them over.

'There you are, Merrin! I saved you guys some seats.' He gestured at the three empty seats beside him, and then chuckled. 'Well, okay, they weren't exactly in demand. But they will be in another minute, so you should sit down. Tilma made meat pie.'

At first, Merrin hesitated to sit; Vilkas was seated directly across from him, and even though he was in conversation with Vignar Gray-Mane for now, she didn't want to sit so close to him. But she hadn't had any trouble with him in the past two weeks, and Farkas was sitting there, looking at her hopefully.

In the end, she couldn't disappoint him, so she flopped into the seat beside him, and nudged him in the ribs with a smile.

'Bring on the pie – I've already been working hard today. What do you think of my new outfit?'

His eyes widened, obviously noticing her new armor for the first time, and then he whistled. ' _Damn_! The two of you really outdid yourselves. That looks great!'

'Holds up great, too.' Ria leaned around her to look at Farkas with a grin. 'Now that she has armor that fits, Athis is hard pressed to land a hit on her.'

'Hey!' Athis huffed as Farkas laughed. 'That's not fair! You know _full_ well that I landed _three_ hits, thank you _very_ much.'

Ria sniffed, eyebrows playfully arched. 'As I recall, Athis, it was only two.'

'It was _three_! You just refused to call the third one based on bias. She's new, so you go easy on her.'

'If you say so, Athis. If you say so.'

For a few more minutes, there was easy conversation in the hall as ale was sipped and fruit or cheese were snacked on. Torvar and Njada came filing in, dusty and sweating, and sat across from one another two seats down from Merrin. Torvar noticed the armor right away, and told Merrin that it was 'totally bitchin'. That seemed to irritate Njada, who put her helmet down on the table with a _thunk_ and glared at her tankard of ale.

Then Tilma came out from the kitchen, smiling and holding an enormous cast iron skillet, and most of the conversations were quickly forgotten. Tilma took her seat sitting opposite from Kodlak, the pie was passed around, people served each other or themselves, and the meal really began.

The pie was savory and delicious, and Merrin was actually feeling at ease. All thirteen people who lived in the hall were sitting at the table, and conversation was flowing easily again all around her. Farkas was in the middle of telling her about the latest job he'd gone on when Torvar called down to Vilkas, a bit louder than everybody else.

'Ey, Vilkas, guess what?'

Torvar seemed excited; most of the people gathered looked over curiously, including Vilkas himself.

'What is it, Torvar?'

'I heard something _very_ interesting just now when me n' Njada were passin' back into the city,' Torvar announced. 'The guards at the gate were talkin' back and forth about it. _Apparently_ , a bunch of the farmers came in early this morning, tellin' the guards that they'd seen a _dragon_ flying over the east woods. A dragon! The guards say the farmers are terrified it's the same dragon that did Helgen.'

Merrin's stomach lurched violently at his words, and the hand that wasn't holding her fork balled up into her lap. Feeling slightly nauseous, she stared at Torvar, who wasn't done talking.

His eyes were lit with excitement, and he swung his fork like a tiny battleaxe as he grinned over at the other man, oblivious to Merrin's stare. 'Sounds like they might be needing _us_ soon, eh? Just think of it – a real dragon!'

She didn't want to think of it, but she was, anyway; Torvar's words had brought vivid images rushing back to her, of that day in Helgen – the chaos, the choking smoke and stench. The paralysing fear. The deafening roars of the glittering black dragon, only matched by the screams of so many burning people.

Her stomach was definitely twisting now, and she took a deep breath as she looked away from Torvar. Her eyes landed on Vilkas, instead.

He was looking more sour then curious, now, and as she stared at him, he scoffed at Torvar.

'Bah.' He grumbled as he picked up his drink and took a swallow. 'Don't get ahead of yourself, Torvar. _Dragons_. Now that they're claiming it was a dragon who burned down Helgen that's all we're going to hear. People will be seeing dragons everywhere.'

Someone to the side chuckled – maybe Skjor. Merrin couldn't believe what she'd just heard; underneath the table, both of her hands were balled so tight her knuckles were white.

 _He thinks the dragon was a lie?_

Beside her, she heard Farkas speak in his deep, rumbling voice.

'Vilkas, what are you saying? You don't believe a dragon really burned Helgen?'

Vilkas snorted in response, and waved a hand dismissively. 'Of course not, Farkas. _Think_. Everyone knows the dragons are long gone. There hasn't been one in Skyrim for over a thousand years.'

'It _was_ a dragon that burned down Helgen.'

The words were out of Merrin's mouth before she'd even planned to say them. Vilkas' last words had been met with more chuckling, but that died off in the wake of what she'd said; for the first time since she'd sat at the table, Vilkas' eyes met hers.

'Is that so?' He smirked, and she could see disdain written on his face as he looked at her and shook his head. 'It sounds to me like you've been letting gossip carry you away.'

The branded images of what she'd seen were still fresh in her mind, and combined with his words, they caught the embers of her temper and sent them into roaring flame. Instantly, she snapped back at him.

'It sounds to _me_ like you should spend more time actually _listening_ to people, and less time thinking you _know_ everything.'

Somebody to her right snorted a muffled laugh, but she didn't care to see who. Vilkas' smirk had melted, to be replaced with a scowl, and now the two of them were staring each other down with burning eyes. After a second or two, he answered her.

'Oh?' His tone was challenging, and laced with sarcasm. 'Tell me then – were you _at_ Helgen, when it burned? Did you actually _see_ the dragon?'

She wanted to reach out and strike him; she settled for biting out an answer instead.

'I was. And I did.'

The sudden pin-drop silence in the room was what made her realize what she'd done. Instantly, she regretted her words, but it was too late.

Vilkas obviously hadn't been expecting that answer, and he snapped his jaw shut, looking surprised and dissatisfied. She broke away from his gaze, feeling sick, and looked instead at her plate of half-eaten food. Heat prickled up her neck as she felt the weight of many eyes on her; as the seconds stretched by in total silence, the weight became unbearable. Finally, she looked back up, and was confronted with the stares of the people around her. Some of them gaped, looking astonished. Others were looking openly suspicious – like Vignar Gray-Mane, their oldest Companion, staring at her hard with his beady blue eyes. She looked at Kodlak to her left, and saw how serious he looked – mouth pursed in a frown, grey eyes probing hers, as if seeking the truth, and looking mournful.

Merrin couldn't take any more. She hadn't wanted anyone knowing what had happened to her before she'd come to Whiterun – had gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. And now, in a moment of reckless anger, she'd announced it to everyone. She shoved away from the table and got to her feet in one motion – deafening, in the otherwise silent hall. When she spoke, her words were addressed to no one in particular, and she wouldn't meet anyone's eye.

'I need some air.'

Then she turned on her heel, and all but fled as she went banging through the front doors of Jorrvaskr.

She had only made it part-way down the stone steps when the doors banged open again, and then she heard Farkas' voice.

'Merrin, wait up. Wait!'

She didn't slow down, and she was at the bottom of the stairs before she felt a big hand on her shoulder. He spun her around, and then she was looking up into Farkas' worried eyes.

'Merrin, what happened in there? Is what you said true?' His face was screwed up with obvious confusion, and concern. 'A dragon attacked Helgen?'

It was plain that he was worried for her, but anger and humiliation still tore at her, and she shrugged out roughly from under his arm. 'Yes.'

'Are you _okay_?' Both the sadness and the confusion on his face deepened. 'This is awful. Why didn't you _tell_ me?'

Regret stabbed at her, but she just shook her head at him. Another lump was rising in her throat, and staring at his anguished face was making it worse.

'Please, Merrin, _talk_ to me!'

'Farkas, _please_.' The pleading tone in her friend's voice tore at her heartstrings, and she placed a trembling hand on his chest as she looked up at him and shook her head.

'I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't talk about this now. I need some air. I need to think.' Memories of Helgen were still rattling around in her head, and she wished she could close her eyes on them.

'I want to help you, Mer. Please let me try.' Farkas tried to take another step forward, but her hand on his chest held him in place. Again, she shook her head.

'I know you do. But please, Farkas, I need to be alone for now. If you want to help me, give me space.'

His eyes were the color of cornflowers when he was upset, and the sight of tears glistening in them made Merrin feel even worse. But after just a second, he nodded.

'Alright. I understand.' He took a step away from her, and nodded. 'Take all the time you need. I'll leave you be. But when you _are_ ready, I want us to talk. Is that okay?'

She had no idea _when_ she'd ever feel ready, but Merrin didn't tell him that. Instead, she nodded.

'That's okay.'

She stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, and watched him climb back up to Jorrvaskr. He turned around to look at her before he slipped inside, and the sadness she saw there made her stomach ball up. Then he disappeared into the hall, and Merrin set her sights on the Plains District.

She ended up huddled on the ground in the look-out culvert behind Olava the Feeble's house, with her back against the old stone. It was quiet there – no sounds just then but the wind and the birds – and she took comfort in the peaceful sounds as she rested her head against the wall. Slowly at first, the images of Helgen began to settle back into the dark of her mind, where she'd tried to force them. Eventually, after several minutes of deep breathing and feeling the sunshine on her face, they were gone.

The quiet gave her plenty of opportunity to think.

She wasn't surprised that Farkas had come after her when she'd left – the two of them really _had_ become friends since she'd come to Jorrvaskr, and it was huge news that she'd accidentally dropped on their heads. But she hadn't realized _how_ friendly they'd gotten until she'd seen those tears in his eyes. Farkas was proving to be a sensitive, emotional man, intuitive to the feelings of the people around him...but she hadn't expected that this would upset him so much. That seeing _her_ upset would upset him.

They _were_ going to have to talk about it, once she could handle it; it was obvious that he cared about her, and she at _least_ wanted to explain to him why she hadn't said anything at all. Hopefully, he would understand.

She snorted at herself, then. Of _course_ Farkas would understand. Farkas had proven to her since she'd met him that he was the innately understanding type – regardless of what the others said about him being stupid. When he'd asked about her past and she'd rebuffed him, he hadn't pried again.

It was facing everybody else that was going to be the problem.

The disturbing memories may have subsided, but the anger hadn't, and neither had the embarrassment. How was she going to continue on her day to day at Jorrvaskr, now that everyone would be wanting to hear first hand about Helgen and the dragon? How could Vilkas be so closed-minded that he'd dismissed the rumors out of hand, without even considering the alternative? People had _died_ , and he'd acted like he had all the answers, when he wasn't even _there_.

Merrin shook her head, took a breath. She needed to walk, or this anger wouldn't go anywhere.

She decided to go down to the marketplace; she'd started to get friendly with a couple of the stall owners and other people who spent a lot of time there, and maybe a drink at the Bannered Mare would do something to help her relax.

* * *

Merrin had no sooner entered the marketplace when she heard a raised, angry voice, and it stopped her in her tracks.

'You foolish old woman! You know nothing – _nothing_ of _our_ struggles! _Our_ suffering! Who asked you to make like you do?!'

The source of the shouting was coming from Fralia Gray-Mane's stall. Two men were standing in front of it. She recognized one of them as Idolaf Battle-Born, one of the first men she'd seen when she'd come to Whiterun, dressed in his usual Imperial armor. The other man was the one who was shouting; he was greying, dressed in fine blue robes, but she couldn't recognize him from the back. Beyond them, she could barely see Fralia herself, standing behind her counter, looking very red in the face. Merrin wasn't the only one to stop in her tracks; several people in the square were staring at the trio, including other merchants.

'Nothing?' It was Fralia talking now; her voice sounded hard and bitter. 'And what of my son? Hmm? What of my Thorald? Is _he_ nothing? Of course not. So don't talk to me about _suffering_.'

Idolaf sneered. 'Thorald chose his side, and he chose the wrong one. Now he's gone—that's _war_. The sooner you accept that, the better.'

He'd said the words tauntingly, and they'd hit their mark; Fralia leaned over her stall counter with both hands on the wood, and got right up in their faces, her voice raising to a shout.

'I will _never_ accept his death! My son still lives – I feel it in my heart! So _tell_ me, you disgusting cowards, where is he? _Where are you holding my Thorald?!'_

' _Father_.' A third man got involved then, hurrying up to the stall. Merrin recognized him; tall and lean, with a trim blond beard and long hair tied back in a tail – he spent a lot of time in the market square. He grabbed the older man's arm.

'Father, stop this. It's gone on long enough. Can't you see there's no point to this?'

The man he'd called father turned around, and Merrin could see that his face was lined – accentuated by his cruel expression. Angrily, he turned on the man who'd intervened.

'And who are _you_ to tell me what's enough? _You,_ who disappoints me at every turn? Look at your brother, beside me. Do you see _him_ presuming to tell me how to behave? Defending filthy Stormcloak _traitors?!_ The only thing more embarrassing than your weakness is your utter lack of _respect_.'

So this must have been Olfrid Battle-Born, then; he'd referred to Idolaf as the third man's brother, and the stranger _looked_ like a blood relative.

Olfrid wasn't done; the older man shoved the younger then, _hard_ , so that he staggered and sprawled onto the cobblestone of the market floor. Several people gasped at the display, and everyone looked uncomfortable..

'Now mind your own _business_ , and get out of my _sight_! I know when _I've_ had enough.'

 _Where was the guard who was usually posted here?_ The place where he usually stood was deserted, and there were no other guards in sight.

Olfrid's younger son leapt to his feet, breathing hard, with a furious blush staining his face. For a second, he looked like he was going to lunge at Olfrid, but then he just shoved past him, storming up the stairs to the Bannered Mare and wordlessly slamming the door behind him.

Olfrid seemed utterly unaffected in the silence following his other son's departure; as if there'd been no interruption, he looked over to Idolaf with a sneering smile.

'Can you believe this old hag?' He laughed, and looked at Fralia, who was staring at him now as if he were pond scum.

'"Holding him?" Why, don't you know? I've got him in my cellar! He's my prisoner!'

He laughed for a second at his own cruel joke, and then took a step closer to Fralia, all pretenses of amusement gone. His voice was as harsh as rock grating rock.

'Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor. And you'd best learn to keep your _mouth_ shut, before you suffer the same.'

' _That's enough.'_

Merrin had no idea when she'd moved; instead of standing at the edge of the market, she was two steps away from the Battle-Borns. Once again, she'd spoken without having any plans to.

Somewhere along the way, it had clicked in her mind: _this was who the Gray-Manes were mourning for._ Seeing the old man in front of her tormenting Fralia over her lost son had her even angrier than she'd been at Vilkas; when the two men turned around to see who'd spoken, looking annoyed, her face was as hard as chiseled stone.

'Leave. _Now_.'

'And who in Oblivion are _you_?' Olfrid sneered. 'My patience is already worn thin. I'll have no qualms about having my son deal with you, if you don't get out of my way.'

'Your son is welcome to try,' Merrin dead-panned. 'Who I am doesn't matter. I told you to _leave_. Now. Nobody wants you here.'

'Oh?' There seemed to be no end to this man's malice; he threw his head back and laughed like a villain.

'Do you even know who I _am_ , you stupid girl? I'm above reproach. Nobody in this city would _dare_ to tell me to leave.'

'That's where you're wrong.'

It wasn't Merrin who'd spoken; when she turned her head to see who had, she saw Anoriath striding towards her from his stall, glaring hard at the two Battle-Borns. He came to a stop beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder, facing the men down in solidarity.

'The lady is right. I think you two should leave.' His voice was harder than she'd ever heard it, and there was no trace of his usual smile on his face as he stared them down.

For a single beat, there was silence in the market place. Olfrid was staring at the two of them like something foul he'd stepped in. Then another voice chimed in.

'I agree. I don't want you here, either.' This time it was Carlotta who'd spoken, looking coolly at the two men, and she'd rounded her stall to take a place at their side.

Merrin's intervention had caused a chain reaction; people who weren't brave enough to stand on their own started flocking to join the little band standing in front of Fralia's stall. Sigurd came to stand beside them, and then so did Brenuin the Redguard beggar, mumbling something about Olfrid being stingy, anyway.

'They're right!' Ysolda put down her flower basket and stood beside them, hands on hips. 'You have no right to abuse people this way.'

Even little Mila Valentia ended up having her say; she came to grab a handful of her mother's skirt, and blew a loud raspberry at the Battle-Born men. 'Miss Fralia is one of the nicest people I know, and you two are just a couple of big bullies! Go away!'

It was astonishing; in the space of a minute or two, every single person who'd been in the square was standing in front of Fralia's stall, staring down the Battle-Borns as a united front.

The final straw was when they heard Hulda's voice, coming from the open door of the Bannered Mare; she'd obviously seen at least part of what had happened, and she was grinning rather unkindly at Olfrid as she had her say.

'They're right, Olfrid. If you want to shame yourself by smackin' your own kin around in public when they try to have you act decent, then for God's sake, don't do it on _my_ doorstep.'

Merrin took another step forward, and couldn't help but smile at Olfrid then.

'Well, old man, I don't know. It seems to me like there are _plenty_ of people in this city who _would_ dare tell you to leave. You should stop harassing Fralia, and take our advice.'

If looks could kill, they would all be dead; Olfrid was ready to keep on fighting – but his son wasn't. Idolaf had been looking increasingly uneasy as more and more people joined them. In the moment of silence following Merrin's words, a resolute expression slid onto his face, and he grabbed his father by the arm of his robes and turned to whisper something in his ear.

Whatever he said must have been better received than his other son's attempt, because Olfrid finally stood down. He drew himself up to his full height, staring down his nose at the group of people in front of him.

'Idiots, the lot of you. You're all going to regret this.' He spit on the ground in front of them, and then he shook off his son's hand and stalked down the road, towards the Drunken Huntsman.

Somebody in their crowd let out a cheer as they left, and in the space of a beat, all the rest had joined in, cheering and laughing. Anoriath clapped her on the back, and Mila Valentia hugged her leg, calling her a hero.

'I'm _not_ ,' Merrin tried to insist, embarrassed. ' _Somebody_ had to say something.'

'Nah, the kid is right,' Brenuin sidled up and cut in with a grin. 'You gotta have balls to stand up to the Battle-Born. Eh, I mean, you obviously don't have _those_ , but—she's right, alright? Jeez.'

But the person who had the last word was Fralia herself. She'd been holding it together as the Battle-Borns left, but now she broke down into overwhelmed sobs; as quickly as she could, she was running around her stall, and then she crashed into Merrin, hugging her fiercely.

'Thank you, you sweet girl. Thank you.'

Automatically, Merrin's arms came up around the shaking woman, and she stammered a reply even she couldn't hear. The crowd around them was making sympathetic noises, and she felt several people brush around her arms as they patted Fralia on the back and tried to soothe her crying.

After a while, Fralia _did_ calm down, her sobs easing to hiccups, and then Hulda spoke again from her place on the steps.

'There's a girl, Fralia, take a breath.' Then she addressed the crowd. 'Well. I don't know about you lot, but after all that, _I_ could damn-well use a drink. They're on the house for the time being, for everyone who had a hand. Oh, and juice for our fairy, of course,' she finished, sending a wink Mila's way.

'So come inside, whoever's thirsty!' With that, she disappeared back into the tavern, leaving the door open behind her.

There was another cheer, and most of the group started clambering up the steps to the Mare. Brenuin was in the lead, whooping something about 'dogoodin' bein' thirsty work'. Carlotta and Anoriath stayed behind, asking Fralia if she would be alright; she insisted that she was fine and thanked them both for their support, and then they filed into the tavern, too.

In the end, it was just Merrin and Fralia left in the market square. Belethor poked his head out of his store's front door, as if he'd only now noticed there'd been a commotion, but when he saw a mostly empty square, he just shrugged and closed it again.

Fralia had ended up leaning against the counter of her stall, and in the new relative silence, she looked up at Merrin again with teary blue eyes and a small smile.

'Thank you again, dear. It means a lot to this old heart, you all doing what you did. It was mighty brave.'

Merrin grimaced, frustrated. 'It was nothing, really. I wish I could've done more. That man is an animal.'

'That's an insult to animals everywhere,' Fralia said, and sighed. 'Our families have been buttin' heads for a long time now. This is nothin' new.'

'What he did was wrong,' Merrin said angrily. 'You've suffered a terrible loss. Nobody deserves to have a lost child rubbed in their face like that. It's heartless.'

Fralia's feeble smile widened a bit, and her eyes were sad as she reached up with one bony hand to pat Merrin tenderly on the cheek.

'My husband was right about you – you're all heart. A shame some other folk choose to be so unfeeling.'

'I'm sorry about your son, Fralia,' Merrin answered quietly. The look in the older woman's eyes was tearing at her heart. 'I'd wanted to ask Eorlund about it, but I—'

'Thorald isn't dead.' Immediately, Fralia's eyes were filling again. 'Don't tell me you're sorry he is. Please.'

Merrin's stomach twisted uneasily; how did she respond to that?

'I – I'm sorry, Fralia. I meant no disrespect. I took it that he'd died, and the Battle-Borns...' she trailed off apologetically.

Fralia shook her head, chin jutting out stubbornly.

'They _say_ that he was killed, oh yes. But _I_ know better! I _know_ my son is alive!'

There was no room for argument in the woman's eyes, and Merrin wasn't going to ask how she could be so sure; Fralia had already seen enough upset.

But Fralia was sharp, and she must have caught the question in Merrin's eyes, because she shook her head and tittered.

'You're too polite to speak your mind. But I've heard it all before. _'Fralia, how can you be so sure that Thorald isn't dead? He was a soldier, for God's sake!'_ ' Her face hardened, but in her eyes there was desperation.

'But I _am_ sure! I _know_ he's alive. It's those Battle-Born...they're in with the Imperial Legion. _They_ know it too, and yet they _lie_ to my very face, and laugh at a mother's torment!' After her emotional outburst, she covered trembling lips with a shaking hand, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Merrin was shaken, and stood there feeling deeply uncertain; something about Fralia's words had chilled her. She was _so certain_ that her son was alive...and Olfrid Battle-Born had taken such _obvious_ pleasure in telling her that her son was dead...as she stood there and watched Fralia tremble, the beginnings of suspicion took root in her chest.

'Fralia, what makes you so sure that they're lying to you?'

The old woman's eyes snapped open, and pierced Merrin with their pleading, tear-drenched depths.

'It wouldn't be wise to discuss it here. But I speak the truth. _Please_ , if you truly wish to help us, come with me to my family home. I'll tell you the whole story there!'

Her plea was so genuine, her tone so raw with emotion that Merrin didn't doubt she was telling the truth, and knowing it made her anger swell; something cruel was going on here.

She'd promised herself that she'd be less impulsive after joining the Companions, but that didn't stop her now from nodding her head – from putting a hand on Fralia's arm.

'Alright. Lead the way.'

For a second, the older woman looked as if she couldn't believe her ears. And then she clutched at Merrin with both hands. 'You mean it? Oh, by the Nine! Come then, let's not waste time!'

With Fralia in the lead, the two women hurried up the stairs to the Wind District and then crossed the footbridge over the man-made stream. Odeth saw them coming, and let out a bugled greeting as they passed, but Fralia paid the cow no mind. In no time at all, Merrin was being ushered past the rearing twin griffins and through the front door of House Gray-Mane.

Fralia bolted the door behind them once they were inside, and then turned to Merrin, nervously clasping her hands.

'Thank you for coming. Welcome to our home.'

'It's beautiful, Fralia.'

It was the truth; she'd been told that this home was _ancient_ , and the inside testified to that. It was built in an _old_ traditional Nordic style, similar to a longhouse. A long, central firepit was throwing golden light onto everything in the high-ceilinged main room, bouncing off of wooden pillars that were carved into the likeness of several different animals, who's paws and hooves were all raised in the act of holding up the ceiling or second floor. Woven tapestries of many faded colors covered the walls all the way down the room, and the far wall was dominated by a massive fireplace who's carved stone mantel was cluttered with what were likely family heirlooms. In front of the fireplace sat a banquet table, obviously well-cared for, but looking old enough to have been an original part of the house.

She'd only just gotten a feel for the room when the sound of booted feet came rushing down some stairs, and then she heard a man's voice.

'Ma, is that you? Who're you talking to?'

She turned to see who'd spoken, and came face to face with a man in plainclothes, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

His hair and beard were completely grey, but his face wasn't lined. He had hard features, made more prominent by a hard expression, and for one whole second, they looked at one another in obvious surprise. Then the man suddenly lunged to the side, hand darting into an open display case and coming back out with a steel sword that glinted wickedly in the firelight. With his lips curled back in a snarl, he pointed it at her.

'Who the _hell_ are you?'

' _Avulstein_!' Behind her, Fralia was sounding absolutely mortified. ' _Put that down!_ '

'What are you then, huh? Are you Legion? Here to try and take me away?' He growled. 'It's not happening. If you lay a _hand_ on my mother, I'm gonna make you wish you were—'

' _Avulstein, please!'_ Fralia shouted this time. ' _Listen to me!_ She isn't an Imperial, she's a friend! She's here to help us find Thorald!'

Avulstein paused, but only for a second; his blue eyes narrowed even more as they swept over her, and he didn't lower the sword. She kept an eye on him for any sudden moves.

'Oh, yeah? How do we know she isn't some sort of spy for the Battle-Born? It was foolish to bring her here, ma! There's no telling what those bastards will do if they find me here!'

'She's no spy.' Now Fralia was sounding indignant, and she came to stand right beside Merrin, putting a hand on her shoulder.

'This is Merrin – the Companion's newest recruit! _She's_ the one been workin' with your father!'

'Oh.' Clearly, the pieces clicked; the man's brows furrowed, making him look _just_ like a younger version of Eorlund, and after another second, he lowered the sword. 'I see.'

'Do you? It's about damn time! Now put that thing away, I'm sick to death of weapons.' Fralia's voice was shrill, and full of tears. ' _Please_ , let's just talk.'

Another long second passed; Avulstein was looking more sheepish than suspicious now. Finally, he nodded his head, and gingerly put the sword back in its case.

'Alright, ma.'

Then he held out one calloused, tentative hand, staring her directly in the eye. 'Avulstein Gray-Mane. It's Merrin Hakonsdotter, right? We've heard a lot about you.'

She had never seen this man before – _how_ much had he heard about her? She shot him a wry smile, and took his hand for a shake.

'Well met. You have my thanks for not skewering me.'

He grimaced. 'It's been a hard year. A man can never be too careful.' He released her, and then looked her over again, expression growing dead serious. 'So. You really want to help with Thorald?'

'If he really is alive, then I'll do whatever I can.'

* * *

'They're the Emperor's biggest boot-lickers in all of Whiterun. Their connections to the Empire and the Legion are well-known. When ma sent word that he'd gone missing, there was no doubt in my mind.'

The three of them had sunken into armchairs clustered around one end of the fire, and Fralia and Avulstein had worked together to unfold the entire story for Merrin. What she'd learned so far was making her blood boil.

The Gray-Mane's middle child had been missing for over three _months_ – there'd been a raid in his camp back in the spring, and he and several other Stormcloaks had been dragged off in the night. Other than that, there'd been no word – the family had no idea what'd become of him. The only reason they had _that_ much information was because Fralia had written to Avulstein about his brother's disappearance, and he'd gone straight from his own posting to Thorald's, looking for answers.

Fralia had begged Avulstein to come home, but home wasn't much safer than the battlefield; they'd smuggled him into the city in the dead of night two months ago, and the reason Merrin had never seen him before was because he never left the house. Avulstein was a known Stormcloak rebel; there was a warrant out for his arrest. And the Battle-Borns had it out for them all. So he spent every day in the confines of his family's home, pacing the floors in frustration, a bird in a cage. The only reason he was safe was because the Battle-Borns had no idea he was there.

Still, their story confused her.

'But...why? What do they have to gain? Even if the Battle-Borns _did_ tip off the raid, what would _they_ get out of it?' She furrowed her brow. 'Favor with General Tullius?'

'That, and just plain old spiteful satisfaction,' Fralia replied, voice trembling.

'Why—'

'Because!' Thorald barked, frustrated. 'The Battle-Borns pitched in with the Empire years and years ago. They've never forgiven me an' Thorald for joining the rebellion. Olfrid would be _happy_ to see us dead.' His eyes shone as hard as flint in the firelight, and he clenched his hands into fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

'It's personal, plain and simple. They had my brother locked up someplace just to get back at our family – to make us suffer.' He growled. 'And they _know_ where he's being kept. I know it.'

Through her anger, her heart went out to the people in front of her; how bitter and twisted did a person have to be, to make an entire family suffer like this? She'd known that the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns were feuding, but according to Ria, they'd used to be friends – was there no mercy left in the Battle-Borns? Was there nothing this war wouldn't spoil?

At length, Merrin's eyes flicked back to Avulstein's.

'If that's true, then I feel for your family, and Thorald. But those are serious accusations. We'd need proof to back them up. Not to mention to find out _where_ Thorald is.'

Avulstein gave a harsh sigh, and raked his hands through his hair.

'Our hands have been tied. My parents can't get their hands on the information. I'd _die_ before I'd send my sister. And if _I_ tried to find proof, that would be playing right into the Battle-Born's hands. The second they saw me on their property, they'd have me carted off and arrested. Then we'd _never_ find out what happened to Thorald.'

Seconds passed, and the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and an occasional sniff from Fralia. Then, suddenly, Avulstein's head snapped back up from where he'd been looking into the flames, and his eyes pierced Merrin's with dawning realization.

'Hold on...maybe that's it. Maybe this is where _you_ can help.'

Fralia spoke up, sounding confused. 'Avulstein, what...?'

' _She_ can get us the proof we need!' Excitedly, he turned back to Merrin. 'Think about it: the Battle-Borns don't know you from Akatosh. They have no idea that you want to help us. They'll have hidden the information somewhere, not wanting everyone to find out they've been lying. But maybe _you_ can butter them up enough for them to let something slip!'

 _Shit_. Merrin and Fralia turned to look at one another, and knew they were both thinking the exact same thing; when it came to Merrin and Olfrid, there wasn't enough butter on Nirn. Wincing, she turned back to Avulstein.

'That won't work. It's part of how I even got involved – Olfrid and I had a run-in. Those bridges have been burnt to the ground.'

Fralia had already sagged; Avulstein swore. Merrin gritted her teeth, feeling useless and stuck, and the room descended back into silence.

Then once again, Avulstein broke it. This time, he was speaking carefully.

'Hold on. It might not matter. There's more than _one_ way to get information.'

Instantly, he had Merrin's attention; she met his gaze, alight with new hope.

'What do you mean?'

The big Nord rose from his chair, and walked to one of several side tables pushed up against the walls, opening a drawer and rifling around. When he came back, he stopped to stand in front of her, and opened a clenched fist to reveal what he'd grabbed: a set of lock picks.

Fralia saw them at the same time as she did, and let out a strangled gasp. 'Avulstein, _no!_ We can't ask Merrin to do that, it's _illegal!_ If she were caught, she'd be punished. We can't expect her to—'

'I'll do it.'

As mother and son fell silent and turned to look at her, a tiny voice screamed at Merrin somewhere in the back of her brain.

What did she _mean_ , she'd do it? _Why?_ She'd been doing her best to stay impartial on the war, so why would she illegally break into the home of law-abiding citizens to try and help a known Stormcloak rebel escape his fate? A criminal, in the eyes of the Empire?

But she squashed the voice out like a bug.

Not too long ago, _she'd_ been considered a criminal in the eyes of the Empire, too. If it hadn't been for somebody showing _her_ kindness, she would be dead right now.

She _had_ done her best to stay impartial in the war, but deepin her heart, Merrin knew this was different. It didn't matter that Thorald was a Stormcloak – it didn't even _really_ matter that she'd come to care for both Eorlund and Fralia, since she'd arrived.

What mattered was that if what she was being told was true, then Thorald had been targeted out of nothing but spite, and his family deserved to know where he was. Finding that out wasn't just the honorable thing to do – it was the _right_ thing to do.

Outside of her internal conflict, Fralia was talking again, sounding nervous and wringing her hands.

'Oh, dear, you can't! We appreciate you wanting to help Thorald, we do. But that's asking too much. You seem like a good girl...I don't want you getting into trouble for our sake.'

Merrin stood resolutely, and shook her head at Fralia. She put a hand on the woman's slender shoulder, and smiled.

'I can handle some trouble, Fralia. You all deserve to know what's happened to Thorald.'

'But, Merrin,' the older woman started, blue eyes huge and anxious.

'Please.' Merrin interrupted her. 'I really want to do this. It's the right thing to do.'

Letting her hand drop from Fralia's shoulder, Merrin turned resolutely to Avulstein, and plucked the lock picks from his open hand. When she looked him in the eye, the determined fire she saw blazing there was a mirror of her own.

'What sort of proof am I looking for?'

* * *

It was a beautiful day in Whiterun, and a Sundas on top of that; most of the city's inhabitants were either strolling around and enjoying the market, or lounging around, enjoying the sun. Nobody had paid any mind to a lone woman passing through the Wind District.

And now, Merrin was crouched in the grass and tucked out of sight, with her back pressed against the farthest wall of House Battle-Born.

She'd done an inconspicuous circle of the house to choose the best entry point, and had been more than pleased to discover that someone had left a ground-floor window open on the side of the house that couldn't be seen from the road. She'd spent the last ten minutes sitting directly under said window, listening carefully for any sounds from within – and there hadn't been any.

It was time to make her move.

Moving smoothly and confidently, Merrin hoisted herself up onto the windowsill, and peeked through the glass.

The room obviously belonged to a child, with a small bed in one corner and several toys on the floor...and it was empty. Taking this as a good sign, she forged ahead. The window was opened just wide enough that she could shimmy through, and she did so head first, putting her palms on the stone floor to brace herself.

As soon as she was inside, she listened some more before moving a muscle; all was still as silent as before, so she tiptoed her way to the door, careful not to trip on anything.

The door to the child's room was closed, and she opened it by the barest of margins to listen for anyone on the other side, but heard no one. Finally, she dared to push the door open far enough to peek her head around.

The Battle-Born's home had seemed newer and better polished from outside than the Gray-Mane's – on the inside, it was even more so. The great room she now looked in on was richly appointed, filled with brand new furniture and all kinds of finery, and in a second it was made abundantly clear which family was the wealthier. But where the space was full of _things_ , it was empty of _people_ ; she didn't see a soul anywhere in the long hall, and there were only embers in the hearth of the enormous fire pit on the far side of the room. As it happened, the layout of the house was to her fortune; the floor of the partial second story was directly above her head, and even if there _were_ people upstairs, they wouldn't be able to see her if they looked down into the great room.

There was a set of double doors directly across the room from her, with a decoratively carved piece of wood nailed above the doorway. She could see there were letters carved into the wood's surface, and when she squinted, she could make out them out as ' _O.B-B' – Olfrid Battle-Born._ Seeing the letters, Merrin allowed herself a smile; it would seem that luck was on her side, in this particular endeavour. As quietly as she possibly could, she crept across the flagstone and put an ear to one of the doors.

Silence met her there, too – it looked like the family was out for the day like most everyone else, and Olfrid himself must've still been wallowing in the Drunken Huntsmen. Still, she was careful opening the door.

The bedroom she walked into was also very grand, with a four-poster bed heaped with green velvet covers, and genuine silver service sitting on a washstand beside it. A vanity with a large, oval mirror sat in the corner holding a woman's things, and that surprised her – Ria had told her that Olfrid's wife had died a long time ago.

Merrin closed the bedroom door softly behind her, and began the search in earnest. She went through his nightstands, the chest at the foot of his bed, and his armoire, finding nothing each time. She even searched the vanity, to no avail.

She wasn't surprised; Avulstein had warned her that whatever she was looking for would be hidden away.

There was a door on the other side of the room, slightly narrower than average – she'd figured it to be some sort of closet or linen cupboard when she'd first come in. But she was empty-handed. It was worth a try.

When she twisted the knob and found it locked, she broke into a smile.

It was a good lock, of much finer quality than a closet would merit, and it took her several minutes of delicate picking before she heard the telltale _snick_ of the gates turning.

The room turned out to be a study, and she could tell right away that _this_ was where the patriarch of Clan Battle-Born conducted his business. A bookshelf beside her was crammed to bursting with expensive-looking leather-bound tomes, and there was an iron safe sitting in the corner.

But she was drawn immediately to the desk against the back wall. All four corners were topped with fat, stubby candles, wax dripping down the legs of the desk, and in the middle of the desktop was a haphazard pile of paperwork.

She started carefully rifling through the paper, and found a wide assortment of things; personal correspondence from people who were obviously friends...letters from various businesses, thanking him for his recent donations...statements from a bank in Solitude. Even a letter of inheritance, stamped with the seal of Markarth.

None of it was of interest to her, and she was about to stop digging and rearrange the pile when something caught her eye: the official seal of the Imperial Legion, stamped in crimson wax.

 _Gotcha_. Merrin was smiling triumphantly as she pulled the stiff, elaborately folded missive from the pile, and lifted the already broken seal to read the words on the paper.

But as she read the letter's contents, the smile quickly died.

 _To one Mr. Olfrid Battle-Born of Whiterun,_

 _It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane, also of Whiterun._

 _As you know, the person in question is a convicted Stormcloak rebel, who has been taken into the Empire's custody, and normally protocol would dictate that such inquiries were to go unanswered. However, due to the instrumental part you played in enabling the capture of Mr. Gray-Mane and a number of his compatriots, as well as the loyalty you displayed to the Empire in doing so, an exception will be made._

 _The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Thorald Gray-Mane has recently been removed from the original site of his detainment, and taken into the custody of Thalmor agents. From our prison, he was escorted to Northwatch Keep._

 _I don't think further elaboration is necessary; from here on out, it is in the best interest of everyone involved for the matter to be dropped entirely. With this in mind, I trust that there will be no further inquiries as to this matter._

 _Yours in duty,_

 _Gen. G. Tullius, Military Governor, Ambassador of Cyrodiil_

The letter was dated from a week ago. She covered her mouth with her free hand as she stared at Tullius' flourishing signature, and her heart plummeted.

 _The Thalmor_.

The news couldn't have been worse – it would've been better if she'd read that Thorald was rotting in Cidhna Mine. The dark insinuations on the piece of paper in her hand were nothing compared to the weight of this reality; any Stormcloak in Thalmor hands was in the direst of straights. And only for so long.

A week...longer, since the response likely hadn't been prompt. She needed to get back to Avulstein with the letter, and _now_. They could already be too late.

She hastily returned the pile to the order she'd found it in, and relocked the study door on her way out. As quickly as she dared, she tip-toed from the bedroom and across the great room, to the child's bedroom with the open window, closing each door behind her as she went.

Her heart was pounding from the urgency of the situation, but that was nothing compared to what happened next. She was half-way through the window, with one arm and leg still inside the house, when she heard running footsteps and a child's voice, quickly approaching the bedroom.

'Alright, alright Mila, gimme a second!'

It must have been Lars, come to get something from his room. If she didn't move fast, in another second he would open that door and see her hanging from his window.

There was nothing for it; she wrenched her leg painfully the rest of the way through, biting back a curse as she fell gracelessly into a heap in the grass below. She'd cleared the window without a moment to spare – the door to the bedroom had come flying open, and now she could hear Lars clearly.

'Huh? Is somebody there?'

 _Oh, gods._ He must've heard the scratching of her yanking herself through. As she scrambled to press her back against the wood directly beneath the window and hugged her legs tight to her chest, she could barely hear his approaching footsteps over the thundering gallop of her own heartbeat.

'Hello?' His childish voice was _right_ at the window now; if he thought to poke his head out and look down, there would be nowhere for her to hide. Merrin held her breath, and resisted the urge to close her eyes.

For an endless moment, there was nothing but silence, and she was terrified that he would hear the hammering of her heart against her ribs. But then she heard Lars speak again, clearly to himself, sounding confused.

' _Huh._ Weird...oh well.'

To her immense relief, his footsteps picked back up again, heading away from the window. He started to whistle an aimless tune, and after he shut his bedroom door, she heard him call out to Mila, 'alright, I've got it! Let's go!'

Merrin _sagged_ against the wood once he'd gone, and gusted out an enormous breath. That had been _much_ too close, and if it hadn't been a little boy who'd heard her, it likely wouldn't have ended so well. As she took some deep, steadying breaths, she reminded herself again that not _all_ of her luck was bad _._

But she didn't rest there long; as soon as her pulse hit an even keel, she tucked the incriminating letter into her tunic and hastily got to her feet. She had bad, important news, and now she had to deliver it.

* * *

All of the blood had drained from Avulstein's face as he and Fralia had read the letter. His mother had finished a few seconds before him, and now she was clutching at her chest, her body wracked with silent sobs. When he finally looked back at Merrin, his expression was stunned, and his eyes were pools of despair.

'The _Thalmor?_ By the Nine,' he moaned. 'It's even worse than we thought.'

Merrin had left her armor behind before she'd slipped into the Battle-Born's house, and she nodded at him grimly now as she picked the pieces up out of her chair and slid them back on, one by one. The sight of Fralia twisted in anguish was like a dagger being twisted into her chest, and once again she cursed the letter for bearing such hateful news.

The older woman let out a wail then, and she dug her fingers like claws into Avulstein's arms as she collapsed against him. He wrapped both arms around her so she wouldn't fall to the floor, and then she shuddered violently, choking words out in between her sobs.

'They'll _kill_ him. Those – those – _animals_ will tear him apart!' She moaned as if she were locked in a nightmare. 'My _son_...not my boy...'

Merrin couldn't take any more. She leapt forward toward the two, hands spread out in front of her, and words came tumbling out of her before she could think them through.

'Maybe he can still be saved! Don't give up now!'

Fralia kept right on sobbing as if she hadn't spoken, but Avulstein met her eye, looking resolved and tormented in equal measure.

'I have no intention of _giving up_ ,' he growled. 'The letter said Northwatch Keep. So I know where to hit them.'

Merrin nodded, over-eager, desperate for the purpose of action. 'Yes! So what's your plan, then?' When the Thalmor were involved, if you wanted to win, you needed a plan.

'My _plan_?' Avulstein scoffed. 'There _is_ no plan. The plan is for me to leave Whiterun, get to Northwatch Keep, and get my brother back – dead or alive.' He gritted his teeth. 'If he can be saved, then I'll save him. And if not, then I'm bringing his body back home. I'll not leave it with those monsters.'

The meaning of his words dawned on her, and she gaped at him, open-mouthed.

'...What, you mean by _yourself_?' Merrin asked him, horrified.

He waved a hand at her, frustrated and dismissive. 'Who else? There's nobody I can trust to help.'

An idea clicked; more words tumbled from her.

'What about the Companions?! This is exactly the sort of thing they do! I'm sure they would help you, now that you know for sure where Thorald is.' She said it all in a rush, trying her best to reason with him. 'You don't stand a chance against all those Thalmor on your own!'

Fralia's wailing cries redoubled then, and Avulstein shot Merrin a glare as he guided his mother into the nearest armchair and started rubbing soothing circles onto her back. When he spoke, his tone was scathing.

' _Bull_. They've known for a long time that Thorald was missing – one of the first things my parents did was go to Kodlak and Skjor, asking them for help.' He hissed out a breath, looking furious. 'And do you know what they were told? That the Companions don't get involved in political affairs. That Thorald was a Stormcloak, and because of it, their hands were tied. It's _bullshit,'_ he repeated on a growl. 'I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the _glorious_ band you've joined is made of nothing but money-grubbing _cowards_.'

The words were like a bucket of icy water, splashing over her and chilling her to the bone. She didn't want to believe them, and standing there, she nearly told him so. How could they be the truth? The group of people she'd been living with didn't match the description Avulstein had given – they were loyal, heartfelt, brave...honorable. Even the least likeable of them carried themselves with honor and discipline. The idea that they would turn their backs on someone who needed them so badly was preposterous.

 _But what reason did Avulstein have to lie?_ The question hooked itself into Merrin's chest, making her squirm as it demanded an answer.

For several seconds, she grappled with doubt. But then urgency shoved it aside, with a hand that brought perspective.

Regardless of what the Companions had or hadn't done, the reality remained the same: if Thorald was still alive, he desperately needed help. And so did Avulstein.

One more time, Merrin's mouth opened of its own accord.

'Then _I'm_ coming with you.'

She hadn't planned to say the words, but the second they were out, she agreed with them; there was no niggling voice in the back of her head, questioning her sanity. This was right.

Avulstein was staring at her now like _he_ was questioning her sanity. Even Fralia, who'd been despondent since reading the letter, had choked back her sobs to stare at her. Avulstein was the first to speak.

' _What?_ Are you serious?'

'You _can't_ go alone,' Merrin replied steadily. 'Or you won't come back. If you're going to Northwatch, you need help. If you have nobody else, then I'm coming with you.'

For a second, he was silent – then he spluttered.

'Look—Merrin—I know you came because you wanted to help, and you have. But—but I don't even really _know_ you! It's not—'

'I don't even really know _you_ ,' Merrin said, cutting him off. 'And you're a Stormcloak _fugitive_. I could be arrested for being _seen_ with you!' She stared at him directly, irritated, willing him to see the sense in her words.

'But that doesn't change Thorald's situation. You are in _no_ position to be turning down help, even if the person offering it is a stranger.'

He was looking defensive as he stared at her now, and his words came out sounding the same.

'Look. I appreciate the offer, but it's going to be a _rough_ trip, and I don't know how you'd hold up. I don't even know if you can really _handle_ yourself in a fight, and there's _going to be—_ '

'Avulstein.'

It was Fralia. Her voice sounded strangely brittle, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as she stared fiercely up at her son.

'Enough of this. You know she's right. You _can't_ get Thorald back on your own.' Her tone was on the verge of accusing, and she lurched back to her feet unsteadily, when it looked like she really _should_ be sitting.

'Here stands somebody _right_ in front of you—somebody capable—and you think to turn her down? You're being a fool.' Her voice cracked, and wavered with more tears. 'Will you really go rushing into that keep all alone, and make me lose two of my children at once?'

At first, Avulstein had looked ready to argue, but had deflated as she'd continued; now, he looked stricken with shame.

'No, mother. Of course not.' He drew up beside Fralia and hugged her to him, tucking her head under his chin and staring hard at the fire. 'I'm sorry for upsetting you. I just want what we all want. I want Thorald safe.'

They stayed that way for a second, locked in the simple embrace, and then Fralia pulled away to look him pointedly in the eye.

'Then go, but make it so that you'll be coming back _home_ , too. Accept the help.'

Merrin had stood there while all of this unfolded, feeling slightly intrusive and out of place, but when Avulstein looked at her again, the feeling faded. He was staring at her hard, his expression clouded.

'Are you sure about this?' he asked, sounding uncertain. 'We'd need to leave straight away, and the trip will be made on horseback, so you'll need to ride. Northwatch is days from here – up in Northern Haafingar. And it _will_ be dangerous.'

She heard his words, but they didn't deter her – she'd already made her mind up, and she nodded at him resolutely.

'I'm sure. I told you I wanted to help you and Thorald. I meant it.'

He looked at her for another long beat, and then slowly returned the nod.

'Alright, then. I won't lie – I don't understand why you're doing this thing for us. But you have my thanks.'

' _All_ of our thanks.' Fralia came walking over to her then, and took both of Merrin's hands into her own. 'No matter... _how_ this turns out,' she said with some difficulty. 'We'll never forget this.' And then she kissed both of Merrin's cheeks.

Merrin had rescued people before, but she'd never gotten used to the family's emotional reactions, and she was tongue-tied for a response. All she could do was smile at Fralia, and give her hands a squeeze. Luckily, Avulstein spoke up again then, and no words were needed.

'If we're going, then we'd better leave as soon as possible.' He turned to his mother, looking uncertain. 'What will you tell Da and Olfina? They're going to notice I'm gone.'

'Leave that part to me,' Fralia responded. 'I don't want to get their hopes up, in case...' she swallowed hard, and shook her head. 'In case it's too late. Best they don't know, for now. I'll think up something else to tell them.'

Avulstein nodded, and then he suddenly sniffed hard; he took a huge step forward and wrapped his mother into a crushing hug. They stayed that way for several moments, and this time Merrin spoke up from behind them.

'Don't worry, Fralia. Avulstein and I will watch each other's backs. I'll bring him back to you, safe and sound.' Then she turned her gaze to the big Nord man. 'Right, Avulstein?'

He smiled grimly at her. 'What, or else run the risk of losin' my da's new apprentice?' He snorted. 'He'd kill me. Yeah, I'll have your back.'

 _New apprentice?_ Merrin stared at Avulstein, feeling warm in the face. _What_ had _Eorlund been saying about her? Did he really consider her an apprentice?_ Unbidden, a huge smile spread over her face at the warming thought.

'Alright, then. It's settled.' Fralia pulled away from her son and stood in front of them with hands on hips. A new light of hope had sparked to life in her eyes, and she looked them over with a determined expression.

'We'd better get you two ready for the trip. The sooner you get going, the better your chances.'

Merrin and Avulstein nodded in unison; when he spoke, he sounded as determined as Fralia looked.

'I promise, ma. We're getting Thorald back, no matter what.'

* * *

It was quiet back in Jorrvaskr; everyone must have either gone off on some sort of job, or out somewhere to enjoy themselves, and she'd slipped unnoticed into the empty newblood's room.

That was exactly how Merrin wanted it. She was _still_ angry, still embarrassed, and didn't want to have to answer any of the questions she was sure would be levelled her way if she was unlucky enough to run into anyone in the hall. And now there were more than just her own feelings in play; she was in a hurry, rushing to pack for the _very_ unexpected journey she was about to take. There were probably lives at stake – she didn't have time to argue about dragons.

That was what she told herself over and over as she made her preparations – that she was _only_ rushing because of Thorald.

She and Avulstein had parted agreeing that they would get ready as fast as possible, and then meet up again at the city stables. And so, she was getting ready. With practiced efficiency, Merrin dragged her rucksack out from under her bed, and started filling it with everything she thought she'd need – they were taking horses, so she was generous. A couple changes of clothing, including a heavier set, in case it rained. Several potions each of health, magicka and stamina. A salve she'd purchased, to ward off infection, and bandages for wounds. The cookpot she'd had to buy got squashed on top, and inside it went a bundle of hard-tack wrapped in linen, in case there was no time for cooking, and flint, for striking fires. She had no maps for where they'd be going, but knew it was far, so she packed her extra water skin in case the main one broke.

She fastened her brand new bedroll to the bottom of the pack, and her unstrung bow diagonally across it, and then set it on her bed. Her armor needed a once-over, and she gave it one, checking ties and tightening straps until she was satisfied. She grabbed her sword and slid it into its sheathe, and then after a few seconds of hesitation, she borrowed a long, elven dagger from Ria's armoire, and slid _that_ into her belt, too.

She stuffed her quiver with all the arrows she had, and placed it beside her pack to wait, while she dealt with her hair. It was wild as usual, and she didn't want it in her face for the ride, so she plaited it back into a long braid and securely tied the end.

When everything was finally ready to go, she shouldered her pack, and then her quiver. The final thing she picked up was her helmet, and she slid it down into place before throwing her braid over her shoulder.

She climbed the stairs up from the sleeping quarters, and left Jorrvaskr without looking back.

* * *

When she arrived at the stables, Avulstein was already waiting for her, leaning against the inside of one of the stalls. She hadn't realized it was him until he'd approached her; despite the heat, he was wearing a long grey cloak with a deep hood pulled up, his entire face in shadow. It made sense – he _was_ a fugitive, and nobody could know he was there. He had his own bulging pack on the ground beside him, and a battle-axe strapped to his back.

'Are you ready?' He asked quietly.

'Ready.'

The Whiterun stables were both large and full, with well over two dozen stalls, most of which were occupied. Avulstein led her to two stalls side by side, most of the way down the stables, and then opened the padlocks securing the stall doors with a key on a chain that he took from his neck.

Inside the stalls were two beautiful horses – a grey dapple gelding, and a chestnut mare. He spoke to them in soft voices, stroking each on the nose, and then he turned to her.

'You'll be riding my brother's horse, the chestnut. Her name is Sparrow. Do you need any help saddling up?'

Sparrow softly knickered at her then, and Merrin was immediately charmed, coming up to stroke the horse's velvet nose herself. She didn't need any help saddling, and told him so.

All of the tack was sitting in chests at the ends of the stalls, and the saddles on pegs from the wall; they got to work, and a short time later, she was vaulting herself into the saddle and urging Sparrow away from the stables, with Avulstein following suit. The stable hand was dozing in and out, and barely glanced their way as they set off at a trot.

In another minute, they were on the northern road headed away from the city. Avulstein drew up beside her, so they could talk.

'Aright. So far, so good. Nobody saw me leave – as soon as we're out of view of the farms, I'll take off this cloak...' In his saddle, he started. 'Oh! That reminds me. Hang on...'

Taking his gelding's reins into one hand, he partially slid off his pack, undoing the toggles holding it closed and throwing open the flap with the other. From the very top of the pack, he withdrew something large and bundled up, and held it out to her.

'Here. This is for you, and I didn't know if you'd think to bring one. You'll be needing it.'

It was another cloak, not unlike the one he was wearing – made of heavy grey wool, with a large hood trimmed in fur. She took it quickly so that he could fix his pack, but just held it in one hand once she had it, looking confused.

'Why would I need a cloak? I don't need to hide from anybody.'

He hadn't returned both hands to the reins; instead, he was using the free one to clutch at his hood, making sure it didn't fly off in the wind. From beneath it, he snorted. 'That's not what it's for.'

'Then what? It's still summer. We have another month of warm weather.'

He sounded impatient. 'That doesn't matter, where we're headed. Northwatch Keep is near the Sea of Ghosts. Have you ever seen the Sea of Ghosts?'

She hadn't, but she'd heard stories; as soon as he said the words, realization fell into place, and she winced.

'Oh. Right.'

' _Right_ ,' he repeated. 'Doesn't matter _when_ you go up. The Sea of Ghosts is always the same. Summer doesn't even exist, there.'

They were grim words; all at once, Merrin was glad that she'd thought to pack a warm set of clothes. She didn't really have an opportunity to open her pack, so she draped the cloak across the horn of her saddle, and thanked him quietly.

On that cobbled road, the day was as beautiful as ever, with wildflowers of every color dotting their path on either side, and puffy clouds as white as snow scudding across a deep blue sky. But soon, that wouldn't matter a bit. As they settled into a silence back-dropped by the _clip-clop_ of hooves on cobblestone, a fresh wave of realization really hit Merrin, in terms of what they were doing.

They were making a beeline for the unknown.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I'd like to take a second to thank all of my readers who have very patiently waited for me to put out this chapter, as well as any new readers checking out my story for the first time – you are all so, so appreciated! I know the wait was long, and for that I apologize. I'm going to try hard to be much quicker with chapter twelve.**

 **I'd like to ask that you please leave reviews when you're finished reading, and let me know what you think! I appreciate feedback a lot! Also, for newcomers, this is to let you know that I also have a twitter profile that you could follow me on! Check me out at gwap_queen00 for Skyrim related memes, jokes, posts, polls, as well as pictures of adorable animals! I'd love to hear from you!**

 **Without further ado, enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

They passed several farms along the road, with farmers hard at work in the fields, and then the city's western watchtower, with the guards inside hardly paying attention. As soon as their yellow cuirasses got hard to make out, Avulstein freed himself of the heavy cloak, stuffing it inside his pack and swiping at his sweaty brow.

A minute later, they veered off the road altogether, cutting across the plains to their right. They wouldn't be able to talk at speed, and Merrin didn't know the way, so Avulstein took a minute or two to teach her some hand signals he'd learned as a soldier, and then told her to watch for his signal. Then both of them urged their mounts to a canter.

As time and miles passed, she saw that there were plenty of deer out in these plains, and that should have meant plenty of wolves. But they only saw two small packs as they rode through, and both times, the wolves kept their distance. It was the perfect day for a ride, with a generous breeze rippling the seas of grass around them, the blue sky seeming never-ending on the horizon, and despite the reason they were riding in the first place, Merrin felt her spirits lifting.

They'd been riding hard for a long time, putting great distance behind them, and had just ridden past some old burial cairns when Avulstein abruptly signalled for her to stop. She eased Sparrow into a gallop, and then a trot, pulling up beside him. Over their course, they'd pulled up close to a jagged range of peaks – too small to be called proper mountains, but far too large to traverse – and now Avulstein was staring at the shelf of rock, brow furrowed, looking uneasy.

'We're going to have to swing wide, this next part.'

'Why? What's the matter?'

'We're coming up on Hamvir's Rest. It's just up there, to the east. I _won't_ ride by that place – it's cursed.'

For a second Merrin looked at him, disbelieving; when she saw he was actually serious, she couldn't help but snort.

She'd heard the stories of Hamvir's Rest. When she was a little girl, her father had loved to sit her and her friends down around a fire, and scare them all silly with the tale. She'd outgrown the fear, but clearly, some others hadn't; in her travels as a hired blade, she'd heard more than one grown man _insist_ that he'd come face to face with Hamvir the Headless, traveling through the White Forest at night. Well – face to shoulders, at least. Obviously, Avulstein still believed the stories.

'You don't _really_ believe that, do you?' She stared at him, and tried to sound convincing. 'It's just a story – and besides, it's still broad daylight!'

But Avulstein staunchly refused, unfazed by her amusement – said that any man fool enough to disturb Hamvir's Rest would be taken care of by Hamvir himself, and that like it or not, he was going around.

Merrin sighed, but didn't argue it further, and they picked up speed again as they veered left, and made the detour.

Avulstein's superstitions gave them no more trouble, and soon they had drawn up even closer to the rocky range. They met up with a stream to their left, flowing past them in the opposite direction; as they continued, it widened from a stream to a rushing river. Eventually the terrain got steeper, and sections of the river were suffused with foaming rapids. It got to be a tighter and tighter squeeze between the river and the rockface; within another hour, they had to ride along single-file just to fit on the craggy path.

The sun was just starting to set and Merrin was about to tell Avulstein they should start looking for a place to camp, when they crested the top of a small hill, and he called for them to stop again.

A stone's throw ahead of them was a river delta, with massive fingers of water rushing out in three different directions. Nestled on the bank of the nearest river, in the shadow of the rockwall beside them, was a shabby wooden shack. Not twenty feet to the side of it was a roaring waterfall, crashing down from the rockwall overhead and into a basin beyond it.

It was gorgeous and unexpected and _loud_ , and she looked to Avulstein questioningly.

'I've passed through here a handful of times,' he all but shouted. 'There's a crabber here, lives in this cabin all summer. He lets people camp, for a couple of gold. We can stay here for the night.'

'Perfect timing,' she shouted back.

'Watch your horse's legs.' He turned back around in his saddle, and started picking his way down the path. 'Not all of these rocks are _actually_ rocks.'

She kept a sharp eye on Sparrow's path as they walked, but no mudcrabs came scuttling up to do battle, and in another minute they'd reached the shack. They found the crabber sitting on the edge of a sagging porch, bare feet dipped in the river, smoking a clay pipe. Avulstein passed him a few septims, asking to stay the night, and the crabber waved them amiably away, telling them to go ahead before he resumed his puffing.

Merrin spotted a bucket beside him heaped with freshly caught crabs, and she pointed at them, asking the price. She passed the crabber another few coins, and was handed back a meaty red sook.

Finding a spot to camp wasn't too hard; the river here had cut deep into the earth, leaving some banks that were high enough not to be soggy, and steep enough to deter the crabs. It was one of these grassy patches they chose, and soon they were set up for the night and fixing supper. Merrin had scrambled down to the water to fill her cookpot, and now it was on the boil over a fire Avulstein had made.

She had never been much of a cook, and two weeks in the kitchen with Tilma hadn't done much to change that. She'd paid for crab because it was hard to mess up, already having its own decent flavor. It was shoved unceremoniously into the pot, and she added crushed garlic from some of what Avulstein had brought, hoping for the best. Rocking back on her heels, away from the fire, she paused to take another look around.

They weren't the only ones making camp in the delta tonight; about thirty feet off, two hunters were sitting by a fire and a couple of pup tents, working over an elk they'd taken down. And not ten minutes ago, a lone man had come walking along from the opposite direction they'd come in, and made his way over to the crabber's shack.

Avulstein had taken care of the horses while she cooked, pulling them up to safe water and throwing the woollen cloaks over their backs so they wouldn't cool down too fast from the ride. He rejoined her as she was transferring the cooked crab onto tin plates, and then he fished a couple of forks from his pack.

They had just tucked into their unimpressive meal – that Avulstein was kind enough not to comment on – when they were approached by the lone man who'd come walking in.

'Hail, strangers. I don't suppose you'd be willing to help out a man in need?'

The man in front of them was tall, thin and lanky, and was dressed as a commoner, with a plain tunic and breeches, a boiled leather vest, and a gimme cap pulled low over brown hair. He had a spritely, youthful face, with slightly upturned nose and eyes, and looked to be a piece younger than either of them. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and the smile he flashed them was rueful.

Avulstein was quiet, staring at the stranger with open distrust, so Merrin turned back to him and answered instead.

'That depends. What's the need?'

He chuckled, sounding good natured. 'I understand. Open country, and all that. I don't mean to cause any trouble, if that's your worry. The name's Rimmel.'

He talked in an open, easy-going sort of way, and then tipped his head towards their fire.

'I was wondering if either of you would let me use your flint to start a fire. I'm trying to set up for the night, and, ah – ' he paused, looking even more abashed. 'I managed to drop mine into the river. Figure it pretty well belongs to the crabs, now.' Again, he chuckled at himself.

Avulstein still didn't look impressed, but Merrin had relaxed; she felt no threat, no ulterior motive. She looked over at Avulstein with an expression that said 'eh, what's the harm?' and then turned back to the lanky stranger.

'Rimmel, you said? Come on.' She pushed up from the ground, got to her feet. 'Take me to your camp, and we'll start a fire. Everyone needs to eat, right?'

Rimmel looked relieved, and cracked an even wider smile as he nodded at her. 'They sure do. Thank you kindly, miss.'

He led her a ways down the riverbank to where he'd set up camp, nestled right up against the rockface, and in the last fading light of the day, she took a sweeping glance around his set-up. He already had a canvas erected, held up over a bedroll with two sticks rammed into the earth; leaning up against one of the sticks was a rucksack, and leaning against _that_ was a cross-body satchel. He had the makings for a fire all ready to go, with kindling propped into a peak on the ground, and a cook pot full of cold river water beside it. The sight of it made her smile, and he caught it, causing him to laugh again.

'I know, I know. Pretty sorry sight, right? I've always been prone to mishaps.'

She shook her head, still smiling, and shrugged. 'Accidents happen to everyone.'

As she knelt down to start her work with the flint, the man named Rimmel sighed, a sound full of chagrin. 'Some more than others, I think. Thank you again for lending a hand. I'm just lucky I'm not the only one camping out tonight. That crabber's generous enough with his land, but he won't lend you so much as a button. Yessir, lucky indeed. If you don't mind me askin', what brings you folks out this way?'

She stiffened for half a second, and then forced herself to relax. There was no way the man could know anything – he was just making friendly small talk.

'Hunting.' The lie came easily enough, and she shrugged. 'Hoping to bag some game.'

Then to avoid further questions, she turned his around. 'Yourself?'

'Oh, me? Same as always. Got plenty of messages to run. This here is part of my regular route.'

His answer piqued her interest. 'Oh, so you're a courier?' That explained the messenger bag, and why he was alone.

'Yes, ma'am. Have been for most of my three and twenty years.'

In that moment, a spark finally took to the piece of char cloth she offered, and with a bit of encouragement, it went licking up the tinder bundle. The orange light bathed the tiny camp, and Rimmel gave a laughing cheer. In a few more seconds, he had what promised to be a proper fire. Job finished, Merrin rose from her crouch, dusting off her hands and pocketing her flint, and Rimmel gave her a clap on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

'Thanks so much, again. Now I can get to making dinner.'

She returned his infectious smile. 'Enjoy your fire.'

They parted ways, with Merrin leaving the glow of his camp to make her way back to her own. Avulstein had finished his share of supper, and had busied himself by cleaning up the dishes. He took one look at her expression and huffed, shaking his head as he dried out her cookpot. But he held his silence, and she just smiled at his reaction, amused.

She finished her dinner quickly under the spread of true nightfall, and then went to relieve the horses of their heavy cloaks for the night. When she came back, Avulstein had both bedrolls rolled out for them. The sky hadn't warned of rain, so they'd opted not to erect the canvas he'd brought, and instead their only roof would be a net of stars.

They spoke very little as they made ready for bed, offloading gear and adding logs to the fire. Merrin wasn't really surprised; they _did_ barely know one another, and he _was_ Eorlund's son. And it was still more than that. The weight of what they'd set out to do was undoubtedly pressing on both of them. How could it not?

Avulstein sat on his bedroll and pulled off his boots, and let her know that they'd be pushing northwest again at first light. Then he wished her a simple goodnight, wiggled into his bedroll, and rolled so that his back was to her. In minutes, he was snoring softly, sound asleep.

Merrin didn't understand how he managed it; she laid down and wrapped up in her own bedroll, but try as she might to make it happen, her mind wouldn't empty. It couldn't.

So she laid flat on her back, listening to the sounds of the water and the nightlife, staring up at the shining magnificence that was millions of stars, blanketing the inky sky. As she laid there and the moons rose steadily higher against their glittering backdrop, a blooming red aurora flickered to life, dancing across the sky like silk ribbons of crimson and vermilion. They washed the land below in their colors, as well as the moons above, making Masser glow like an enormous rosy pearl.

All of it was breathtaking, better than any book, any painting – but she couldn't fully appreciate what was in front of her, with the thoughts that were swirling in her head.

The ones leading the pack were all worried; worried about the task ahead of them. What if they made it to Northwatch too late? What if Thorald was dead by the time they found him?

What could he be experiencing, right now, this second, at the hands of the Thalmor? The possibilities made her shudder.

She had only promised Avulstein and Fralia that she would do her best. But laying here now, still for the night, with nothing to keep her company but her thoughts, she felt very strongly that her _best_ was only good enough if it brought Thorald back _alive_. She didn't know how she would handle it, if she had to bring Fralia any other answer.

That was why she'd reacted the way she did. Why she'd broken into a family's house, why she'd volunteered to come along, why she'd rushed away from Whiterun...without saying a word to anyone.

That last thought reverberated in her head, growing louder and more defined, and as she stared at the flickering red sky, in her chest she felt the first flickering of guilt.

She hadn't said a single word to anyone at Jorrvaskr before she'd taken off.

At the time, she'd convinced herself that she was only in a hurry because somebody was in danger. Now, as she laid here and the flicker of guilt started to grow, she had to admit to herself that that wasn't the _only_ reason she'd left so abruptly. She'd left in anger – left to avoid unwanted questions. To put space between herself and Vilkas, who had pissed her off so badly.

She was _still_ pissed off, but she couldn't use the anger to push aside the guilt. And she couldn't ignore it when a new thought floated up to the top of the pile: What must the Companions have been thinking of her now?

Merrin flushed when she realized that in all likelihood, they had noticed her gone and believed that she'd taken off for good – left Jorrvaskr behind. And then she felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Why _wouldn't_ they believe that? The last thing she'd done was butt heads with Vilkas, and storm off in a fury. And then, poof, her and most of her things had gone.

As the realization really sank in, her stomach gave a nasty twist. She had come to _care_ about a lot of the people who called Jorrvaskr home – considered some of them _friends_. How might they be feeling right now, thinking that she'd lit out without even saying goodbye?

Athis, Torvar...Ria...Kodlak. Farkas. At the thought of Farkas, an even bigger twist, that actually made her wince.

 _Oh, gods._ She had looked Farkas right in the eye and _promised_ him that they would have a talk when she was ready, about what she'd been hiding. What she'd been through. He cared about her, wanted to help her...and she'd given him her word...and now it looked like she'd disappeared. Unbidden, her fresh guilt conjured up the image of Farkas as she'd last seen him, eyes impossibly blue and wet with tears, and a face so forlorn that it tugged at something deep. Aloud, she let out a curse.

She couldn't turn back now – it was too late, and the Gray-Mane brothers needed her. But she couldn't leave the situation with the Companions the way it was, either. What could she do? How could she fix this?

For several frustrated seconds she stewed, mind racing in circles—and then it clicked. Slowly, with wide eyes, she turned her head to stare in the direction of Rimmel's camp.

* * *

The lanky Nord didn't her as she came into his camp for the second time; he was too busy frying snelt over his now-roaring fire and whistling something cheerful to himself. When Merrin spoke up, he jumped so badly that he nearly bobbled everything straight into the flames.

'You said you're a courier. Are you headed to Whiterun?'

Rimmel's eyes were round as saucers as he whipped around to face her, and the hand that wasn't holding his frypan was clutching his chest. After a second, recognition lit his features, and he sagged with relief.

'Oh, it's you! Kynareth save me, I almost jumped into the fire! You can't sneak up on people like that,' he petered out weakly.

She grimaced. 'Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.' She really hadn't. 'Are you alright?'

'I will be, once the ticker settles down. Saints alive.' He let out a gusting breath, stood there a moment, and then a wrinkle of confusion bunched his brow as he looked at her again.

'I didn't really catch what you first said...is there something I can help you with?'

'Maybe there is.' Merrin repeated her original question, and this time, Rimmel nodded.

'Matter of fact, I am. Plan on making it in before tomorrow night.' He cocked his head, was back to looking friendly. 'Why, you have a message that needs running?'

'...Yeah, I do.'

She didn't have any paper – or any ink, or a quill for that matter – but Rimmel carried spares of each for situations just like this, and she just ended up paying him a bit extra to use his. He also produced a thin piece of sanded hardwood about the size of a piece of paper, so that she wouldn't have to write on the ground. And then he turned his attention back to his fish and his whistling, to 'let her get on with it'; he didn't pry or ask any questions, and she found herself smiling again at his back.

She settled in the dirt with the wooden board and paper balanced on her knees, dipped the quill into the ink...and then just sat there, with it hovering an inch above the paper. She realized now that she _shouldn't_ have left Jorrvaskr without letting anybody know, and the guilt of it was gnawing at her. She could still see Farkas' face, so sad, and imagine what he must have been thinking right about now, and it froze her. It was him that she felt the worst about leaving with no explanation – and it made it so that she couldn't bring herself to write to him.

Instead, she addressed it to Kodlak, and then the words came.

 _Kodlak,_

 _I'm sorry that I left without saying anything to anybody. I really am. I didn't mean to worry anyone, and I want you to know that I WILL be coming back._

 _I'm out on a job – one the Companions wouldn't take, but I felt like I needed to. I'm helping Eorlund's family. Please don't involve him in this or ask him any questions – he has no idea about any of this._

 _I don't know how long I'm going to be gone, but I WILL be back. You can count on it. Please let the others know that I'm safe, if they're wondering._

 _I'll be seeing you as soon as I can._

 _-M_

It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. She'd been tempted to ask Kodlak not to let anybody try and follow her, just in case, but in the end she'd left it out – it sounded too presumptuous. Rimmel didn't have any wax to melt, so she folded the letter up tight and tied it with twine. Then she directed him on who to give it to, thanked him for his help, and left him to his dinner.

Merrin made her way back to her own camp feeling as if some of the weight on her conscience had eased. And when she'd given herself a moment to think about it, she felt like she'd made the right choice, in writing to Kodlak and not anyone else; the Harbinger was wise, and level-headed. He would make sure whatever needed to be done with the information would be done.

Avulstein hadn't noticed her leave, and he was still sound asleep as she padded past their campfire and slid back into her bedroll. The sky was still a beautiful riot above her, and this time she let it steal her breath as she snuggled down into her covers. With some of her guilt abated, the long day was catching up to her, and it wasn't long before she was finally nodding off. She closed her eyes to the heavens; it was the chorus of crickets and the knickering of the horses that finally lulled her to sleep.

* * *

Whiterun was going to Oblivion around her.

The townspeople she'd come to know were wailing in terror as they fled like ants down the slope of the city and towards the Plains district, trampling each other and toppling things in their rush to get away. Merrin tried to turn around to look after them, to watch them retreat, but she couldn't – it was as if she were bolted to the stone of the square. All she could do was look up.

The sky over Whiterun was red and churning, swirling like an angry undertow, and enormous chunks of sizzling rock had started raining down on the structures below. She'd only ever seen the like once before, and the knowledge of it gripped her in icy claws. She knew the one who could bring down brimstone.

As if he'd been summoned by her thoughts alone, the harbinger of doom himself came sweeping into her view of the sky above. He crested up and over the tallest tower of Dragonsreach, riding a hot and sulphurous wind on the great onyx wings that bore him aloft, before swooping down in a menacing arc toward the city below. Beaming crimson eyes took in the scene below him, and he let out a blood-curdling laugh that must have boomed for miles, inspiring another litany of screams from the people fleeing the city.

The dragon swooped in yet again, entering the space of the Wind district, seeming too big to be allowed, but intruding nonetheless. At this distance, she could see the iridescent shimmer of his scales, hear the cracking flap of his leathery wings – and then very slowly, very deliberately, the dragon took his leave of the skies. He landed with a terrible crash onto the roof of Jorrvaskr, across the square from where she stood, and even from this distance she could see the way his ebony talons dug into the roofing and crushed the shakes. The weight of him seemed to make the mead hall shudder. And then he was folding his wings, and everything around them was oddly silent.

And then he was looking directly at her.

Again, Merrin tried to move, to run, to do anything, but she couldn't. All she could do was turn her head, move her eyes. The dragon tilted _his_ enormous head, regarded her coldly even with eyes that were glowing like two red-hot coals. A great burst of steam came billowing from his nostrils, trailing down his chest before being whisked away by the maelstrom winds around them. And then the dragon spoke.

' _Sahlo mal lir.'_

It wasn't like it had been back in Helgen. Or, not quite the same. The dragon's words still rang with a terrible force that seemed to rearrange the very air around him. The tone of his voice still sent a shudder careening down her back, dripping with cruelty, and hatred, and malice.

But this time...this time, she understood what he'd said, as clearly as if it were the common tongue.

 _Pathetic little worm._

He stared her down, as if he were waiting for her response, or measuring her reaction. It was now that Merrin realized that on top of being frozen, she couldn't make a sound. He seemed to realize this in the same moment she did, and the dragon threw his head back and laughed again, long and malicious. When he spoke again, his voice was taunting.

' _Hi mindol hi aal filok fin zok suleykaar kul do Bormahu?'_

 _You think you can escape the firstborn of Akatosh?_

He bit at the air, hundreds of razor sharp-teeth coming together in a sickening snap, in a move that managed to seem mocking, even as it terrified. And then he shook his glittering black head.

' _Hi dreh ni mindok fin mulaag do fin Dov!'_

 _You do not know the STRENGTH of the dragons!_

His voice was ringing in Merrin's head like a gong held beside her ear. Her adrenaline was running so hot that every muscle in her body was screaming, and her pulse was thundering through her veins. As if he could _smell_ her fear, the dragon broke into an _evil_ smile, and glared at her as only a reptile could.

' _Koraav dii yol ag daar hi lokaal, mal joor.'_

 _Watch my fire burn what you love, little mortal._

He took an enormous, billowing breath, and she tried to scream for him to stop, fought desperately to move, to no avail. And then he released his breath, in a screaming torrent of white-hot flame that enveloped the district.

He hit the Gildergreen first, and she watched as it went up with a _woosh_ into a mass of flame, like so much kindling. Next was Heimskr's cottage, and then the Temple of Kynareth, who's roof gave in with a shrieking groan, collapsing into the interior below. She cringed when he sent a gout of roaring flame directly at House Gray-Mane, and could only watch as the fire took purchase, licking up the sides of the ancient house, turning the splitting, curling wood from grey, to brown, to black.

Everything around her was ablaze, now. Fire dripping like magma had spread from buildings to the ground below, and the grass itself had caught like a carpet made of racing flame. The only things yet untouched were Jorrvaskr, herself, and the dragon.

The fiery maelstrom seemed to have enraged him – he was no longer laughing, but roaring, and the final gout of flame he spewed was aimed straight up, into the churning sky. He looked back down at her across the sea of fire, and the eyes that latched onto hers were pure flame, and filled with fury like nothing she'd ever seen. He rose suddenly onto his hind legs, stretching to his full height, and then he unfurled his massive wings, spreading them out to either side. He was the picture of power in this stance – a jet black nightmare in a swirling hellscape. Magnificent, and terrible.

The fire gave off such a loud roar that she thought it was all she could hear. But the dragon bellowed louder, in his hateful timber.

' _Hi los NID, ruz wah dii moro!'_

 _You are NOTHING, compared to my glory!_

With no warning, he leapt from the roof of Jorrvaskr, landing in the square with a force that made the ground tremble. And then, burning eyes locked with her own, he started stalking towards her.

She couldn't look away, now – could only see the dragon, and she fought with everything she had to move, to run, but it was nothing short of futile. Behind her, the fire was spreading, caging her in, and she could feel its merciless heat, so close that it was starting to burn. As the dragon came closer, she was horrified to see a reflection of herself in his glowing eyes, silhouetted before a wall of dancing flame.

When he spoke again, he was close enough that the terrible power behind his voice buffeted her like a ragdoll, hitting her like a solid wall, and yet she remained immobile. He was looking frenzied, and bellowing with all the conviction of a zealot.

' _PAH fen mah us Alduin! Zu'u fen KRII fin rii do Jul!'_

He stopped maybe ten feet from her, and her keening mind took in every detail; the way the light from the fire bounced off of his inky scales, the glistening wetness coating his long, white teeth, the cruel hook of his claws scraping against the stones. He rolled most of his weight onto his back legs, then, eyes gleaming like the predator that he was, and she recognized the stance of the pounce. And she knew she was going to die. As he stood there regarding her, his fury seemed to fade, until he reined it in, and then gave her the most sickening smile of all. When he spoke, it was just above a whisper, but it still pushed at her like so many hands.

' _Ahrk hi – hi fen faas dinok, us fen laat.'_

And then he was roaring louder than ever as he lunged at her, and all she could see was teeth.

* * *

The scream that she hadn't been able to let loose came ripping out of her now as she shot straight up in her bedroll, tearing at her covers like a caged wild animal. The sound of the scream went rippling through the delta and into the night beyond, and Avulstein came jerking awake with a snort and sat straight up in _his_ bedroll, too, grabbing the dagger he'd left at his side and looking to her with wild eyes.

'Merrin? What is it?!'

She looked back at him with eyes just as wild, breath tearing in and out of her lungs. She felt impossibly displaced: seconds ago, she'd been devoured by a dragon. It took her several long beats of sitting there panting, hazy with confusion and terror, before the pieces clicked into place and she realized what had happened.

'Merrin?' This time, Avulstein sounded more concerned. 'Are you alright?' In the flickering red light of their diminished campfire, she saw him set the dagger back down, and pull his covers aside. He wasn't the only movement in the delta – far from it. As she looked beyond him, she could see the shadows of movement rippling across the rockface; in the hunter's camp and Rimmel's alike, there was stirring.

'Everyone okay over there?' It was one of the hunters, sounding bleary, shouting to be heard across the camp. 'Is there trouble?'

A light from an oil lamp lit up the nearest window of the crabber's shack, and then a second later he was out on his porch, facing the two of them in a long nightgown and a sleeping cap, holding the lamp aloft to get a better look at them. Rimmel, too, was on his feet, and actually making his way toward them, knuckling both eyes, not looking where he was going.

'Dreaming.' Merrin muttered it to herself, and then looked back at Avulstein and said it louder, her voice hoarse from the scream. 'I was just dreaming.' The relief of it was nearly enough to knock her flat on her back again.

Avulstein let out a quick, gusting sigh, dragging one hand over his tired-looking face before shaking his head. It was then that the latent, secondary realization hit her, and it made her want to sink into the ground: she'd been dreaming, and now she'd w _oken everybody up_.

Avulstein cupped both hands to his mouth, and shouted reassurance back across the delta for all to hear.

'Sorry to wake you, folks. No trouble here. Only nightmares.' He looked over then at Rimmel, who had made it most of the way to their camp, and called out to him at a lower volume, sounding stern. 'No, no, it's fine. We don't need any help. You can go back to your rest.'

There was a general grumbling across the delta, and a long-suffering 'A'right', and then people started sliding back down into their bedrolls, or stoking their failing campfires. The crabber let out a grumble and shook his head, before extinguishing his oil lamp and shuffling back into his cabin, letting the door slap shut behind him. Rimmel, looking mostly asleep again, had started his bumbling way back to his camp.

Merrin's hands were knotted in her lap, stray hairs from her unravelling braid falling in her face, and when Avulstein looked back over to her, she winced.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' She let out a shaky breath, forced herself to tuck her hair behind her ears. 'I'm sorry I woke you...all of you,' she muttered, embarrassed.

Avulstein could have been harsh with her, but he wasn't; he stared at her with steady eyes, and shrugged his shoulders. When he spoke to her, his voice was low, and it bore no anger.

'No need. Must've been some nightmare.'

She shuddered at that. 'You have no idea.' But then she frowned.

'Still. I feel like an ass, waking everybody up.'

He snorted. 'Don't. Happens to all of us, sooner or later. Trust me – I would know.'

She supposed he _would_ know, being a soldier in Ulfric's war. The things they saw must've made for a _lot_ of restless nights, in his camps. As she hugged herself and rubbed her arms, he kept on talking.

'What matters is that you go back to _sleep_ , if you can. Get your rest. Still a few more hours yet before dawn.'

He was trying to be reassuring, she could tell. And she appreciated the effort. But as she nodded at him, thanked him, as they settled back into their bedrolls and the camp settled back into relative silence, Merrin found that _she_ couldn't settle.

No matter how comforting the sound of the crickets, or the whickering of the horses, or the babble of the streams...as the minutes slid by, she found herself breathing shallow, quiet breaths, and staring up at the moons.

She had _never_ had such a vivid nightmare, in all her life. The prickle of embarrassment was nothing compared to the literal cold chills of fear still snaking their way up and down her legs. And no matter how hard she tried to shake the dream's grip, and lodge herself firmly in the reality around her, a part of it wouldn't let her go.

Because she'd understood what the dragon – Alduin – had said, and his last words had chilled her to the bone.

 _ALL will fall before Alduin! I will CRUSH the spirit of Man!_

 _And you...you will taste death, before the end._

* * *

By the time dawn had broken pink and gold over the delta, Merrin and Avulstein had already broken down their camp, packed up the horses, and were tracing the river west.

She had maybe snatched an hour's sleep, in the few hazy hours before the sky started to lighten. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to shake the echos of her nightmare, and any rest she'd managed to take had been fleeting and shallow. Avulstein had hardly fared better, and the early morning birdsong had just had her thinking of giving up on sleep and packing up her bedroll when he'd abruptly stopped snoring, rolled over to face her, and asked if she was awake.

With no point in staying on, they'd made the earliest start they could. This had suited Merrin fine, even though she was tired – Avulstein had been understanding, but she didn't expect the same from the other campers, and didn't see the harm in being gone before they'd woken. And besides – they needed to be as quick as they could.

They'd taken their breakfast right on the trail, munching on hard tack while they rode, assailed by the buffeting chorus of a million insects and the rushing of the river. The delta had been sitting in a sort of depression, with the land around rising in every direction, and when they took a more northerly slant, their work was generally uphill. But the horses were sturdy, and bore it well, and they were able to maintain a fast course.

As dawn mulled into actual day, they suddenly crested the hill they'd been climbing, and just as it had before, the land flattened right out with no preamble. The change had a profound effect on the river they were following, and soon it had gone from narrow and coursing to wide, shallow, and barely flowing.

Both of them tensed and shared a speaking look when they came riding up to a sizable camp nestled along the far bank; both of them were thinking of bandits, and Merrin reached quickly behind her to grab her bow.

But she didn't end up needing it; as they drew level with the camp, they could see the carcasses of two wolves and an elk strung up in nearby trees, the last being worked on by a Redguard woman with a skinning knife, and they reassessed their opinion of the camp: _hunters_. She didn't pay them any mind, probably didn't even hear them over the river between them, and the rest of the camp seemed empty – probably already out for the day's hunt. They relaxed a little, and urged their horses past without incident.

They'd had to slow their pace some time later when the path had narrowed, and were riding single file when they were suddenly attacked by birds—swooping and shrieking with talons extended. The rockwalls around them were apparently full of nests, and for the good of their and the horses' eyeballs, they had to ride into the river itself, and splash to roughly its center.

It seemed to be enough for the birds; in another minute they'd fallen quiet, and quit their threatening swooping. Before too much longer, they'd left the nests behind.

Staying in the river was easiest, with the banks now nearly non-existant, and they forged ahead. Even in the center where the water was deepest, it only reached half-way to the horse's knees; when she looked down into the clear water, Merrin could see schools of tiny fish darting away from the hooves invading their shallows.

They'd been riding in silence for some time already – so it startled her when Avulstein suddenly spoke, as if they'd been mid-conversation.

'We're making a bit of a detour.'

 _That_ hardly made sense; she scrunched her nose up as she peered over at him, letting her confusion show.

'What _for_?'

'To head up to my cousin's cabin.'

'Why?' She didn't think she needed to remind him that time was of the essence.

Avulstein didn't meet her gaze, instead keeping his eyes on the rocks in the river ahead of his horse.

'Two reasons. First, while I know the _general_ area that Northwatch is in, I don't know exactly where it is – _he_ will. If it's sittin' anywhere in this province, my cousin knows where it is. And second, to let him know that we're coming back with Thorald.'

For a moment her confusion deepened, but then she understood, and nodded. 'Ah. You think Whiterun is too dangerous for Thorald.'

'Think it?' He shook his tousled grey head. 'I _know_ it. After we spring him, anybody who comes looking for Thorald is gonna go sniffing in Whiterun. We need to lay him up somewhere else, somewhere remote. My cousin's place will do the trick.'

'You trust this cousin?' Her voice was wary when she asked. Even among Nords, asking to hide a fugitive relative was no small favor.

Avulstein obviously picked up on her thought, and just snorted. 'Kin's kin. This is my ma's sister's son, close family. He'll do right by Thorald.'

He sounded utterly sure of this, and Merrin nodded, conceding.

'Fralia will be disappointed.'

'She'll have to understand.' But _he_ sounded disappointed, and Merrin's heart went out to him, his family, all over again.

After another minute's progress down the river, Avulstein held out a hand for her to stop, and then jerked his head to the left.

'Alright, up through here.'

Merrin looked to where he pointed. In the wall of rock beside them was a sudden gap, just wide enough for a horse and rider to pass through, and a rocky path that twisted up and away. Anyone who wasn't _looking_ for the opening would have easily missed it. Shifting, she eyed him warily. 'Nice front door.'

'I _said_ remote, didn't I?'

The path was twisting this way and that, with no clear view of what lay ahead, and it was so steep that Merrin worried. For several minutes, all she could do was clutch Sparrow's reins a little too tightly and do her best not to look behind them as they climbed.

Just when the ground angled so sharply upwards that she didn't see how the horses could manage it, the rock on either side of them fell away, and the climb was finished as suddenly as it began. Sparrow whinnied triumphantly as she cleared the path, shaking out her long dark mane, and Avulstein's mount seemed to agree as they joined her; his step was high and full of energy, and if a horse could look pleased with himself, this one did.

Holding back a sigh of relief, Merrin trained her attention ahead of them – and let out a whistle instead.

Rock rose around and above them on two sides, and they stood at the top of a grassy clearing that was roughly circular in shape, with the proportions of a shallow bowl. It was loosely ringed with fallen boulders and tall, skinny firs that shivered in the wind, and on the far side of the clearing, the ground dropped away suddenly, like a shelf. This gave way to a stunning sweep of mountains so grand that their distant tops were blue and hazy, and valleys nestled at their feet that glittered with snaking rivers. It was breath-taking; as if the earth had cupped its hands together and formed a ladle, ready to dip into the great basin below.

'It's...beautiful.'

'Yeah..it never gets old.' They sat there for another second, staring out, and then Avulstein shook his head and spoke again. 'C'mon, we'd better head over.'

There was a cabin nestled in the clearing, with jointed log walls and a roof of cedar shakes, and they steered the horses toward it. Smoke was rising from a chimney, and as they drew closer she spotted a worktable shoved against one wall, covered in what looked to be pelts, and two more drying on nearby racks. When they were still twenty paces from the cabin, Avulstein reached over and grabbed Sparrow's reins, pulling her up short.

'This is close enough. You don't know my cousin yet...let's just say it's best not to spook him.' Then he dropped the reins, cupped both hands around his mouth, and bellowed into the clearing.

'Haldr! HALDR, are you there?! It's your cousin, Avulstein!'

From somewhere beyond the cabin, they heard a clanging sound, and then a curse. And then a voice, thickly accented and surprised.

'Avulstein? What are you-? Hang on!'

They stayed where they were, and after another few beats, a man came striding around the side of the cabin nearest them. He was tall and broad, wearing nothing but a pair of breeches—and his hands and arms were bloody to the elbow, with occasional smears over his chest and face. He was clutching a dirty rag in one hand, and using it to try and scrub the blood off as he walked over. His expression was surprised, but far from unhappy.

'Avulstein! It _is_ you! By the Nine, what are you doing all the way out _here_?' He grinned at Avulstein, looked over at Merrin. 'And who is this?'

Avulstein slid from his saddle and grabbed his cousin's still bloody hand, and the two of them pulled into a one-armed embrace, clapping each other heartily on the back. He didn't return the grin, and if anything, he looked even more tired than before when he pulled away and turned to face her.

'This is Merrin Hakonsdotter, a family friend. Merrin, this is my cousin, Haldr Margotsson.'

'Well met, I tell you. I would shake your hand, but...' Haldr gestured to his messy self, still grinning. 'Bucks don't skin themselves, and I was hard at work when you got here. Smart to call out, by the way,' he continued, turning back to Avulstein. 'I keep my knives sharp, as you well know, and wasn't expecting company.'

Neither of them smiled or laughed at the jest, and as Merrin dismounted and came to stand at Avulstein's side, the man's easy smile started to fade, replaced with the first hints of concern.

Even if Avulstein hadn't mentioned that Haldr was Fralia's blood, Merrin still would have guessed as much – the man in front of her didn't have a grey mane. His hair was a pale reddish color instead, hanging loose and scattered with braids, and a close-cropped beard was the same shade. Beyond that she saw the resemblance, though; something about the cheeks and jaw, and although the eyes were a light green instead of blue, they reminded her of Fralia's.

At the drawn-out silence and their solemn faces, he was really starting to look uneasy.

'Cousin? What _does_ bring you here? Have you quit the field? Last I heard, you were running with Ulfric. Tell me, has something happened?'

Avulstein let go of a gusting sigh, and clapped Haldr on the shoulder again.

'That has to do with why we're here. Come on, we should head inside, and you can clean up.' Finally, he cracked a weak smile.

'You smell like a gut bag. And we need to talk.'

* * *

'So there's nothing else for it. We're going to get him.'

'Ysmir's beard.' Haldr came back to his table with their tankards, refilled with more mead, and plunked them on the pitted wood before he sank back onto a bench.

Merrin and Avulstein sat across from him, backs propped up against the cabin wall, and they grabbed their tankards in unison, both drinking deep, despite it being their second round. The road had been thirsty, and they were both tired.

The cabin they sat in was sparse, but clean, and well-lit. A fire crackling in the hearth washed the cabin in its orange light, even as the piece of oilcloth nailed over the single window let the afternoon shine through. The wooden floors were scrubbed clean, which had surprised her, and the bed in the corner was all made up. The three of them sat at the dinner table, with the plates set to one side, and drying cords of garlic and elf's ear hanging from the rafters above.

Now that Haldr had heard the story, _he_ looked tired, too. He'd washed up at a basin beside the bed, and thrown a tunic on, and now sitting across from them, he scrubbed a clean hand over his face. Pressed fingers into his eyes.

'The two of you are doing right, that's for sure. Thorald can't be left as he is.' He let his hand drop, eyed them seriously. 'And he shouldn't be brought back to Whiterun.'

'Sharp as ever, cousin.' Avulstein set his tankard aside and leaned forward on his elbows, also looking serious.

'We were hoping he could lay low with you, for awhile. Stay here, where no one will come looking.'

'Of course.' Haldr said it at once, without missing a beat, and nodded. 'Wouldn't hear of anything else. Those Thalmor bastards can search all they want – they'll never find Thorald here.'

Merrin was impressed by him – agreeing to such a large favor so freely, as if it were small – and she smiled as she stared down wordlessly at the tabletop.

 _Kin's kin._

Avulstein made a sound of approval and smiled at Haldr, reaching out and giving him another clap on the shoulder.

'Attaboy. I knew we could count on you. But first thing's first. Thorald's being held in Northwatch Keep, northwest of here. I need directions to make it there.'

Haldr's eyes had sharpened as his cousin spoke, and now he nodded again. 'Aye. I know the keep you speak of. Hang on.' He pushed away from the table, going to rummage in a chest, and when he came back, he was holding parchment and a charcoal stick.

'I can make you a map.'

'Yes. Perfect,' Avulstein breathed, his eyes gleaming. 'That would be a huge help.'

'Well, a map of sorts.' Haldr had already started working, shading furiously with his charcoal. 'We don't have time to make you a perfect one. But you'll get the idea.'

'Anything helps,' Merrin interjected. 'This country is new to me. And Avulstein said you know where everything is in this province.'

Haldr snorted without looking up. 'He's stretching the truth a bit. But more or less. I know the keep you're looking for,' he repeated, tilting his head as he started drawing several lines. 'Few do. I figure that's on purpose. The Thalmor like someplace quiet to do their dirty work.'

'So the keep will be isolated?'

He nodded absently, his hand now working at a cluster of circular shapes. 'Aye, that it is. Far back, in deep country. Wild country...' suddenly he looked up, first meeting Merrin's eyes, and then Avulstein's.

'You tread a dangerous path, cousin. I've seen men disappear over less. Two is a mighty small army.'

Now it was Avulstein's turn to snort. 'Two is all we could dreg up.' His gaze flitted over to hers, and then back to his cousin's. 'It was awful good of Merrin to even come with me. It was _going_ to be an army of one.'

Haldr looked at her then, in a careful sort of way. 'You any good in a fight?'

After what Avulstein had said the day before, Merrin couldn't help it – she bristled in response.

'I hold my own.'

He conceded immediately, raising his free hand in a gesture of peace. 'Alright, I don't doubt it. Still, it's just two is hardly better than one.' Once again, his green eyes sharpened. 'Maybe I should come with you.'

Avulstein was already shaking his head before his cousin had finished the words.

'We shouldn't risk it. The Thalmor don't know or want you, and I wanna keep it that way. And besides, if anything were to happen to you...' He turned away, glaring into the fire instead, fists clenching suddenly on the tabletop. 'No. We need you here.'

'Then what if you wait? What if I send for help? If I rode out now, I could be back by sunrise with a few good men, men I trust. They'd be happy to help you get Thorald.'

Again, Avulstein shook his head, and spoke the words that Merrin was thinking. 'You said it yourself – we don't have the time. Thorald could already...we can't waste any time at all.'

For a tense moment, the two men stared at one another, jaws tense and flexing, hands balled. But then Haldr conceded defeat with a nod and a sigh. 'I know you speak true. Doesn't mean I've got to like it.'

He finished the map with two x's, and then flipped it around to show to them, brisk and practised again.

'Alright. We three are right here - ' he pointed to the nearest 'x' on the simple map. 'Northwatch is here.' A tap to the second 'x'.

'You'll need to backtrack from where you came—you came up through the river, right?' He stopped for quick confirmation, and at Avulstein's nod, continued on.

'It's a finger off of the Karth. Keep tracking north up the river, til' it gets too deep. Ford it to the west, then follow its curve until you hit Dragon's Bridge.' The cousins shared a quick, tense look, and then Haldr shook his head, looking back to the map, Avulstein following suit.

'You're gonna have to ride through. Just be quick, an' you'll be fine. After that, take the road east. You know where to rest the night.' Another quick glance, that made Merrin wonder.

'From there, it's a run through some plain. Keep heading due northeast. If you set out at dawn and you ride hard, then by midmorning you'll come up on a landmark. You can't miss it – a group of boulders, looks like a giant's fist with one finger pointing up to the sky. When you pass it, turn north. Keep riding as hard as you can – that there is cat country.'

'We can handle cats.'

She'd meant the words to be reassuring, but it looked like she'd missed her mark; Haldr scowled at her, and leaned forward as he yanked down the neck of his tunic, revealing three long, jagged scars that ripped across his neck and chest that she hadn't noticed before. Claw marks.

'I'm telling you straight. Keep your eyes open – or the _cats_ will handle _you_.'

Immediately, she pursed her lips and met his gaze. 'I'm sorry.'

He brushed her off with a wave of his hand. 'Just heed my warning. You got knives?'

She remembered the knife that she'd borrowed from Ria, and nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Pray it doesn't come down to using them. Both eyes open.' Then he looked back down at the map, and the other two followed, feeling slightly more uneasy than before.

'This course will take you right up to some peaks, and in them you'll see an inlet. It's hard to spot from afar, so be sharp. When you find it, head into it. It's gonna get cozy – little more than a goat canyon, at the narrow end. And it will be a climb, so be easy on the horses. But they made the climb _here_ , so they should be fine.'

'They're good horses,' Avulstein interjected.

'Hmmm. As long as you were quick about finding the pass, you should come out the other side by early afternoon. Now you're all but swimming in the Sea of Ghosts. Northwatch sits on the shore.'

Avulstein nodded, grunted. 'Anything you can tell us about _inside_ the keep?'

Haldr spread his hands out in front of him, shook his head. 'Sorry. As to that, you two are on your own.'

'This is already a _lot_ more than we had.' Merrin smiled again, and this time let him see it. 'Thank you, Haldr. You've helped us a great deal.'

He looked tired again, and grim. 'Let's just pray it's enough.'

* * *

Haldr had wanted them to stay and take a real meal, but they'd both been anxious to get underway, so in the end he'd sent them off with salted elk instead, and another warning to be careful. And he'd promised that he would be waiting for their return with Thorald.

If she'd thought the climb _up_ to the cabin had been unnerving, the climb back _down_ was positively nauseating, and she'd leaned so far back in her saddle that she was basically prone. Luckily, Sparrow didn't seem to mind.

They'd splashed their way down the river like Haldr advised until it ran too deep, and then forded it to the west. The afternoon had stretched on as they rode, and the sun was now sinking toward the treetops.

She'd been stewing in her curiosity for quite some time, when she finally asked Avulstein the question she'd been chewing on.

'What's wrong in Dragon's Bridge?'

Her speaking seemed to startle him, and when he answered, he sounded irritated.

'Huh?'

She tried again. 'Why do we need to be careful in Dragon's Bridge?'

He looked at her hard for a long moment, and then let out a sharp sigh before turning his eyes back to the dirt path ahead of them. He seemed to weigh something before he spoke.

'It's..oh, alright. Fine. We need to watch our backs in Dragon's Bridge because that's where the Penitus Oculatus is posted.'

He said the last words like they were poisonous, and right away, she understood. The Penitus Oculatus were the Emperor's main enforcers—a special branch of the military tasked with imprisoning criminals and deserters, routing out illegal dens...hunting down fugitives.

If there was really an outpost in Dragon's Bridge, then they would have to tread lightly indeed.

She also understood his annoyed reluctance.

'This must be a real trust moment, huh?'

His shoulders hunched at that, and when he turned to look at her, he was glaring again. 'What do you mean?'

'I get it. You _do_ barely know me.' Her voice was cool, and her face was set when she met his gaze.

'But you'll learn. I didn't follow you out here to the middle of nowhere to stab you in the back. And...' she paused, considered her words. 'Let's just say that I know the Empire isn't choosy about who they call a traitor. I'd rather _avoid_ finding myself guilty by association.' _Again._

Avulstein had the decency to look guilty now, on top of annoyed. 'Look. I just...' Then he sighed again, and this time gave up. 'You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't doubt you, and I'm grateful that you came. It's just...hard, for someone like me to trust strangers. Especially after Thorald.'

Merrin sat rigid in the saddle for another beat, and then slumped on a long sigh of her own.

'We won't be strangers by the time this is over. But, I can't say I blame you. So, apology accepted.'

They had only been riding in the freshly cleared air for about a minute when Avulstein brought his dapple to a halt, urging her to do the same.

'Alright, this is as close as I care to get without cover. We'd better put our cloaks on.'

They donned the heavy cloaks and raised the hoods, and not another minute after they'd set off, the trees to their left opened up and thinned out to nothing, and they had a clear view ahead of them. They were about to start climbing a steep, sudden hill. One of the Emperor's roads came sweeping out from their left and up said hill, and it was a welcome change from rocky dirt.

The river Karth and this road parted ways as they climbed, leaving the rushing water below them, and she could see why; in the distance, a waterfall surged where the land parted in a long drop, and a clutch of rapids foamed at its basin before the water resumed its business. The entire scene was capped by the bridge, obviously the town's namesake – it was carved from natural rock in the ancient Nordic style, crowned by two dragons with long horns that guarded either end of the massive bridge.

They passed through the town as quickly as they could. The cloaks earned them some strange looks from the townsfolk, and they had to slow to a leisurely walk to avoid any extra suspicion. But nobody bothered them with questions or comments, and their hoods were deep enough to hide their faces. The road through the town seemed free of other traffic, and nothing held them up.

When the Penitus Oculatus outpost came into view, with its doors bordered by Legion banners and guarded by Imperial soldiers, Merrin unconsciously held her breath. She could practically see the tension rolling off of Avulstein, and hoped that the Imperials wouldn't see it, too.

There was a moment as they were passing when she was afraid they'd be stopped; an Imperial man wearing Commander's armor came striding from the building and onto the porch, and drew up short when he saw them riding by. He looked at them, confusion on his face, and took another step forward, opening his mouth as if to call out.

But then one of the guards on the porch called to him, and the two of them slipped away as he turned to hear whatever the guard had to say. She wanted to glance back to make sure he'd stayed busy, but didn't dare.

He obviously had; in another minute they passed through the town's rear entrance, and nobody gave them any trouble when they did. Merrin sagged with relief in her saddle, letting out the breath she'd been holding, and saw Avulstein do the same. When they'd cleared a hundred paces, she leaned in towards him.

'Think we're in the clear?'

'Looks like it. But give it another couple a' minutes.'

They took their cloaks off as soon as Avulstein deemed it safe, and then spurred their horses to pick the pace back up. The cobbled road made things easier, and they plunged northeast with considerable speed.

After the best of an hour, the sun was really starting to set – they needed to think about camp. She drew Sparrow up alongside him, and shouted to be heard.

'Where are we setting up for tonight?'

Rather than shout back, Avulstein waved for her to slow down to a trot. He peered through the trees on either side of them, and when he spoke, he looked guarded.

'We're headed for a Stormcloak camp. We're nearly there.'

Merrin's stomach clenched; it was one thing to travel with _one_ Stormcloak...another thing entirely to stay a night in a Stormcloak _camp_. But she schooled her expression, and only raised an eyebrow.

'You really think that's a good idea?'

He snorted, guiding his horse off the road, not checking to see if she followed suit.

'You got a _better_ one? As I recall, you don't know this land. It's this camp, or a cave.'

She just sighed, shook her head and followed him.

They'd been riding on a down-hill slope, and now they made a sharp turn, so that they followed the same rockwall they'd just climbed traveled down. When she saw the first sudden flicker of a campfire through a stand of trees, she pulled Sparrow right up next to Avulstein.

'So _close_ to the Oculatus outpost,' she murmured. 'Hey...how did you know exactly where this camp would be?'

Avulstein looked back at her, lips pursed. 'This was Thorald's posting.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.' He nodded grimly. 'Now listen to me. When we get there, we need to keep our cards to our chest. We don't tell them we know where Thorald is. If we did, they would all just go and rush the keep, trying to get him back.'

She shook her head, seeing his logic. 'That won't work with the Thalmor.'

' _Right_ ,' he whispered back. 'Exactly. So we need to be smart about this. Just keep your head down, smile, and let me do most of the talking.'

The camp was far enough back that a traveler wouldn't likely stumble in by mistake. As they cleared the last of the trees in their way and the tents came into clear view, Merrin realized that they'd actually walked right past the camp on the road they'd just taken, high, high above their heads. With the way the camp nestled against the rockface, you'd never even know it was there.

It was filled with a dozen men or so, all looking scruffy and road-worn, and all of them recognized Avulstein immediately. They called out to him, and several approached them straightaway, embracing him and clapping him on the back when he jumped to the ground.

Towards the back of the camp, another man poked his head out from a sturdier-looking tent. When he saw what all the fuss was about, his face split into a grin, and he came striding toward them.

'Avulstein Gray-Mane! By the Gods, it's really you.'

'Hail, Istar.' Avulstein smiled in turn, but sounded tired. 'Yes, it's really me.'

'It is so good to see you! You're looking hale, brother.' The man named Istar clapped both hands over Avulstein's shoulders and held them there. 'Bringing the fight to the Legion, as always, eh?'

Avulstein chuckled. 'You know it.'

The man was tall, and even burlier than Avulstein, with red hair pulled back in a thong and away from a craggy face criss-crossed with scars. One eye was milky white with blindness, but the other was bright blue, and sharp. He wore a bear pelt like a cape settled over wide shoulders, with the paws clasped together at his chest – a Commander, then.

He threw his head back and laughed at Avulstein's words, and gave him a little shake.

'Reliable, as always. But, enough of standing here! Come, sit with us, give us the news. It's suppertime, at that. Just threw some meat on the spit. And I'd bet your road has been long, eh? Come, the both of you.'

Merrin slid from her saddle then to join Avulstein on the ground, and one of the soldiers around them grabbed their horses' reins and led them to where several others were tethered and grazing. They were led to the middle of the camp, and seated in front of the fire, and most of the men quickly joined them. The camp's leader sat closest to them, and stirred the fire.

'Now, Avel, you know you're always welcome in my camp. But I can think of only one reason you'd be here.' When he fixed them with his blue eyes, he no longer looked cheerful, but somber.

'I wager it's something to do with Thorald.'

Avulstein nodded, looking just as solemn. 'You'd wager right.'

Istar leaned forward amidst a murmuring from the other men, looking serious. 'Have you discovered where he's kept? Neither he or any of the others have returned.'

'No,' Avulstein lied, sounding regretful. 'I haven't. I came to look around, search for more clues to where he might be.' He leaned forward too, conspiratorial. 'Have you heard anything new?'

'Not a gods-damned thing.' Istar shook his head, clenched his fists. 'The cowards haven't dared hit us again. Slunk back into whatever hole they came from, I guess, and took our men with em'. Been pretty quiet ever since.'

Avulstein scowled. 'Any Imps talking?'

'We ain't the type to take prisoners. We've had a couple of skirmishes, ambushed some supply lines. The few we questioned weren't talking.' He snorted. 'Now they can't.'

'I'll bet.' Avulstein scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes. 'I'm not giving up. He's my brother.'

Istar nodded. 'They all are. We're all brothers in arms here, Avel. None of us will give up searching – we'll keep listening for anything new.'

Then his eyes shifted, and landed squarely on Merrin for the first time. A hint of a smile came back to his face.

'Speaking of new. Who is it you ride with? She's unfamiliar to me.'

Avulstein cut in before she'd opened her mouth, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

'This here is Merrin. My woman. My wife.'

 _His—?_ Merrin managed to quell the sharp look she nearly threw him, and only raised an eyebrow when he turned to look at her.

'Merrin, I'd like you to meet Istar Cairn-Breaker. He's one of Ulfric's commanders, and one hell of a fighter. Also a long-time friend.' His eyes spoke plainly to hers, telling her to just go with it.

'Well.' Merrin drew herself up, and smiled graciously when she turned to look at Istar, reached to shake his hand. 'It's a pleasure, then. Any friend of _Avel's_ is a friend of mine.'

Istar shook her hand enthusiastically with both of his rough ones, and then surprised her by leaning forward to plant a kiss on her knuckles. He shot her a devilish grin, and when he looked back to Avulstein, his eyes were dancing.

'Well, well! Well met, indeed, to the _lady_ Gray-Mane.' He chuckled. 'Avel, you lucky bastard. How many years have we known each other now? I didn't think you'd ever do it.'

'Guess I can still surprise you,' Avulstein smirked.

'Not _just_ him.' An older man with ruddy cheeks and silvering brown hair chipped in from across the fire. 'A woman like _that_ , hitched to _you_?' He chuckled. 'You could knock me over with a feather.'

Many of the men laughed at that, and Avulstein took it good-naturedly. A third man piped up, sitting close to Istar.

'Well, where did you find her, then? How'd you meet?' There was a murmuring from the men gathered round, and Istar nodded, still smiling.

'Aye, I would like to hear _that_.'

Again, Avulstein beat her to it.

'I met her on the battlefield. She's one of us.' He squeezed her to him then, and smiled down at her with affection and pride. 'Back in Mid Year. My squadron was in a tight spot, boxed in by some Imps we'd hit on the road. Hers came blasting out of nowhere, and dropped on em' like a hammer. She personally drove a sword through the bastard that had me in a corner.' He chuckled. 'Tough woman.'

Now she was _really_ disgruntled. But still, she held her tongue. The men had started murmuring with appreciation, and instead of correcting him, she painted on an indulgent smirk.

'What can I say?' she looked up at him, still smirking. 'He looked like he needed the help.' And sent a quick elbow-jab into his ribs.

This had the men hooting with laughter, including Istar, and several congratulated them both.

From there, the talk went back to business; as meat was carved and passed around along with bottles of dark mead, they forded questions about Thorald, and the other missing men. Mostly, Merrin kept her mouth shut and let Avulstein handle it, only nodding along when she had to. There was one sticky moment when several of the men offered to help with their search, and Avulstein had to be delicate and creative about how he said no. But he managed it, and steered the topic to safer waters.

'Istar, your food and drink are appreciated. We were hoping to bed here for the night, too. Do you have room to spare?'

Istar was already nodding before he'd finished. 'Of course, of course. You don't have to ask, Avel. There's always room in this camp for another brother.' He looked at Merrin, winked as he smiled. 'Or sister.'

'You have our thanks, old friend. The road _has_ been long.'

'Like she always is.' The red-head grinned. 'But it wouldn't do to have you turn in before we can regale your lady with some stories from our travels together, right? Of course, right.'

The conversation was much lighter, then; it was obvious that the two brothers had spent a lot of time together in the field, and that Thorald's fellow men knew his brother pretty well. They told her several stories from times where Avulstein had been brave or heroic, turning a skirmish in their favor, or sticking his neck out to save one of them. Some of the stories were funny, and that surprised her – she hadn't seen Eorlund's stoic son as the type to pull pranks on his comrades, or make silly mistakes that ended in comedy. The most interesting story involved a _lot_ of mead, and ended in a naked horseback ride through the woods.

Avulstein took all of their teasing in stride, but after this last story he took Merrin's hand in his own, and insisted that they really _had_ to turn in.

They got led to a tent big enough for the both of them, with flaps that could toggle closed. She let him lead her through the canvas flap and out of sight before she slipped her hand from his and turned to face him, head tilted, teeth set.

'Those are some damned good acting skills, _Avel_. I never knew you went to the Bard's College.'

'Quiet,' he shushed her. His hands worked quickly at the toggles on the tent-flap, closing them one after the other. 'You can lay into me in a second. Just let me get this damn thing closed.'

She waited, impatient, and when he turned to look at her a long moment later, she couldn't help but cross her arms over her chest.

'What was all _that_?'

'All what?' They'd carried their packs in with them, and he looked calm and unbothered as he freed his bedroll from his bag and started rolling it out on a fur-covered pallet.

His calm irritated her all the more, and it was good that the drinking and laughing were still going strong outside of the tent, because she raised her voice.

'Why are we suddenly married? And why am _I_ a Stormcloak?'

Avulstein looked at her patiently, like he was waiting for her to realize something. When it didn't happen, he huffed. His voice was flat and brusque when he spoke.

'It was the only way to make sure you'd be safe here tonight.'

Merrin's nose wrinkled at that. 'What do you mean?'

His eyes widened, and he leaned towards her for emphasis.

'Would you rather all of the _lonely_ men out there know that you're available? And that you _don't_ support Ulfric's cause?' He eyed her pointedly. 'That's one step away from being a traitor, out here.'

'Oh... _oh_.' Merrin hadn't thought of any of that, and the second 'oh' came out much more sour than the first. 'Really? And they all seemed so friendly. Bastards.'

'You're probably the first woman they've seen in months. Trust me, you're best off hitched to me.'

It stuck in Merrin's craw like a stick – but she knew that he was right. It wouldn't be the first time in the last four years that some asshole had tried climbing into her bedroll. After several seconds of just staring at him with her jaw clenched, she deflated.

'I guess you're right. I wasn't thinking ahead. You were. Thanks.' Most of her irritation fled her as she said the words, and definitely all of it that'd been for him. Awkwardly, she let her arms drop again.

'They're good men. Really.' He flopped down onto his bedroll, started pulling off his boots. 'But war does things to people. It's best to play it safe.'

'I guess you would know that better than I do.'

His only response was a grunt and a shrug, so Merrin set out to get _her_ things ready. She spread her bedroll out next to his, turning it down so she could climb inside, and yanked off her boots, followed by the rest of her armor. She heard Avulstein rifling through his pack behind her, but didn't pay him any mind. Instead she unbraided her hair, running her fingers through the long black locks and working out the snags before she braided it afresh.

When she finally sat down on her bedroll and turned to look at him, Avulstein was laying with his head propped against his pack, staring at a thick, crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. It was dim in the tent, with only the light from the fire outside seeping through the canvas, and at first she thought it was Haldr's map. Then her eyes caught a glimpse of the crimson wax at the edges.

'Hey.' Immediately, she softened with concern. 'You shouldn't be re-reading that. It'll just upset you.' She didn't see how he even _managed_ to read it, with so little light.

But Avulstein shook his head at her. 'I'm _already_ upset. Nothing's gonna change that, tonight.'

She frowned, crossed her legs as she scooted closer. 'You're worried about him. I know. So am I.'

'That's not all there is to it.'

She nodded. 'I realize. You're also pissed off. I would be too, if a family I'd been close with for years did something like this to me.' Her eyes flashed with anger in the dim light. 'Olfrid sold your brother out.'

Avulstein hissed through clenched teeth, glared over the top of the letter. 'That's no surprise. It's like I said before. That bastard has never forgiven us. He'd be happy to see us both dead.'

'I feel like you're missing something, here. Doesn't it concern you that he was _able_ to do it?' Merrin scowled. 'How did he even know where Thorald _was_? Who passed that information along?'

He was silent for several long seconds, jaw clenched and working. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.

'That does concern me. And I intend to find out. But that _still_ isn't all there is to it.'

His voice sounded hard, but she heard anguish beneath it.

'What else is there?'

He turned his head to look at her, and she saw it then, written all over his face. Guilt.

'I don't know what my brother has been through. I don't even know if he's _alive_ ,' he grated. 'That's on me.'

Again, her heart went out to him. He looked so haggard in the shadows. And so lost.

'That's not true. You can't think like that. You weren't even _here_ when Thorald was taken. There was nothing you could've done to stop it.'

' _He_ followed _me_ into service.' His voice was a harsh, forceful whisper. ' _I'm_ the older brother. If I hadn't taken him with me when all of this started, then he wouldn't be—' He ground off into silence, started again. 'He wouldn't need saving now.'

'I'm sorry. But you can't know that. You can't,' she insisted when he shot her a glare. Then she studied him, really studied for a moment. 'It sounds like you have some regrets.'

'Some?' All at once, he sounded exhausted, and he closed his eyes. 'I'm full of them.'

This gave Merrin pause; she knew that soldiers led lives of hardship – made difficult choices. But she hadn't expected to see the haunted expression in those eyes.

She felt the urge to lay a hand on his arm, but resisted it, in case it would just upset him. Instead, she asked a soft, venturing question.

'What is it that you regret?'

His eyes opened again, but his gaze floated up to the ceiling and stuck there. It was as if he had to look beyond the canvas, to see what she was asking for.

'Truly? I lay here and find that I regret nearly all of it. Eleven years, I've been pledged to Ulfric's cause. I was young, so young when I answered the call, and my fire only stoked Thorald's to match. He was barely even a man when we left home – a _boy_ , really. With strong arms, and a hard head. He asked to join me when I told him I was leavin', and at the time, I thought it was a great idea. Two brothers, together on the road. Fighting for Skyrim. Fighting for _justice_.'

He sounded bitter and wretched and it wrenched her heart, so she sat in silence, and waited.

'We went to Windhelm. We stood in front of Jarl Ulfric, and swore our loyalty. And he seemed only too happy to have us. He made us feel welcome, made us feel important. There was feasting in the Palace of Kings, and storytelling, and all of the new recruits were filled with promise.

'And some of it lived up to what we'd been told. For a while. I still believed in the cause, believed Ulfric was right, and so I spent years runnin' around, sometimes with Thorald beside me, sometimes not. Blocking roads with rockslides. Stealing shipments of weapons and rations. Sleeping in caves that still smelled like trolls, and eating once a day when the rations would run out. But when I made it back to some town or other to report, there was always food waiting for me, and drinks. Women. And I met some damned good men in those fields. Some of the best men I've ever known.'

'Good people can be hard to come by,' she said quietly. 'I'm sure you're better off, having known them.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know.' He shook his head, furrowed his brow.

'I heard the stories by the fire. It sounds like you've had plenty of good times. Those men look up to you. They call you friend.'

'And what is that worth, in the end?' He cursed softly, with no heat, and shrugged. 'A handful of good times, of good memories, scattered over eleven long years? What do I have to balance the cost? To show for my time?'

He turned his head suddenly then, to look at her. He'd asked as if he _wanted_ her to answer; his expression was forlorn, and a touch wild.

'I'm not a boy anymore. I'm a man of three and thirty, with no real prospects. I've taken no wife. I've had no children. I've spent the last decade running around in the wilds taking pot-shots at Imperial caravans. _I_ _wasted my time_. I've seen that for a while now,' he ended bitterly.

'You don't believe in Ulfric anymore. Why?'

'Why?' He scoffed, waved a hand around the tent. 'Look around you. Look at the men outside this tent. Tonight is a good night, sure. With the mead, and the stories, the laughing.' He laughed then himself, mirthlessly.

'But they're tired. We're all tired. They just won't admit it to themselves. Tired of all of it.'

'We were all happy to boo the Empire, and start a rebellion with Ulfric. Some of us even welcomed war. But when it came all these years later, it wasn't what any of us expected. Wasn't what _I_ expected. We thought the bad times were hard before? _Pff._ We hadn't seen _shit_. Now I've seen things. We all have. Some of the best men I've known...' he stopped, shook his head, grimaced. 'Gone. Some of the worst men I've known, too. Sometimes one turned into the other.'

She didn't say anything in response – didn't trust herself to.

'And do you know what I realized, somewhere along the way?'

All she could do was shake her head.

'I realized that we were wrong. All we'd wanted was freedom for Skyrim. Freedom, and peace from tyranny. But that wasn't what was happening. People were just dying, everywhere we went – good people, bad, it didn't matter. Ulfric was wrong. There was no peace. And the Imperials...they weren't the monsters we'd been told they were. They were just like us. All they wanted was freedom. Peace. We'd brought the tyranny on ourselves.'

'Avulstein – '

He kept talking, as if he hadn't heard her.

'If we all could've just realized it sooner, then we wouldn't be here. Maybe we could've avoided it. There would be no trudging through the mud and wind and snow, hunching over a fire in some godforsaken woods, rubbing elbows to keep warm and sharing happy memories to keep hope alive. And there would be none of the rest of it, either. No praying in a closet to a god that might not hear you, no chasing after your brother when he's been taken by _real_ monsters. No telling yourself that you've killed him—and being scared that you're right.'

His words had picked up speed as he went, and now his voice was shaking. He was trembling. And under the bitter anger on his face, there was misery.

She couldn't help but reach out now.

' _Avulstein.'_ This time she said it firmly, and clearly. 'Look at me.'

He did as she told, and met her amber gaze with eyes that were lit with pain. She moved to his side, and placed a hand on his arm. With her other hand, she grabbed the letter that he'd been holding the whole time, and carefully pried it free. He didn't resist her, and when she had it away from him, she put it on the bedroll behind her. Then she spoke carefully, feeling the tremors still running up his arm.

'I'm...sorry. So sorry, for what you've been through. I know that no apology covers it, but I am.'

'I did it to myself,' he answered, fiercely.

'Shhh.' She hushed him, but without any heat. 'Let me talk to you.'

He stared at her, waiting, and she scrambled internally. Looking for the right words, the right thing to say. She hadn't been expecting any of this – hadn't guessed that he felt this way.

Haltingly, she began again. And just did her best.

'We haven't...known each other very long. I wasn't expecting this. But,' she said insistently when he started to get up, to mutter an apology, 'I'm glad you talked with me. You deserve to have someone hear it. I can't imagine all that you've been through, or all that you're feeling.'

She couldn't. Couldn't imagine the pain, or the burden, of someone who'd been a soldier for so long. The responsibility he must have felt – the fear. But she had _some_ inkling.

'I...know what it's like, to hurt people, when you didn't _really_ have to. I know it stays with you.'

He was staring at her still, trembling lightly, and gave her the barest of nods.

'But all we can really do is move forward, and try to forgive ourselves. I know I've had to. So do you. You've got to forgive yourself, Avulstein.' Now he was shaking his head, looking pained, and she pressed on, trying to reason with him.

'You're disillusioned with Ulfric. That's okay. Hell, maybe it's even _good_. I don't have all the answers. But you need to look at the _facts_. You believed in Ulfric for ten long years, and in those years, you did the things you did because you believed in a better Skyrim. Not because you wanted to hurt people. Because you wanted peace, and you were going about it in the way you thought best. That's admirable.'

'But I was _wrong_ ,' he ground out miserably. 'We started this war. Now who knows when it will end? What if there's nothing left to save, when it does?'

Merrin shook her head, put her other hand on his arm. 'Don't be so hard on yourself. Don't give up hope. You aren't the only one who thought war was the answer. Thousands of others thought the same. Some still _do_. You don't bear the weight of that burden alone. And as for Skyrim...' She paused, thinking. Avulstein waited, and it was silent in the tent.

'My father was a soft-hearted man. A pacifist, more or less.'

Avulstein snorted. 'Then he was smarter than me.'

'Hush. I was born in the spring before the Great War. I never knew a time where Talos worship wasn't forbidden, or where the Thalmor weren't a presence in Skyrim. My da...he kept praying to Talos, secretly. When I was old enough to ask him why, I did. He told me that it was the price of peace, and that he was happy enough to pay it. I didn't really know what he'd meant until years later.' The memory made her smile, and she let Thorald see it as she continued.

'He was still alive when Ulfric came back from the Reach, and started stirring up grudges against the Dominion. Still alive when _you_ joined Ulfric's cause. In the year that he died, we had another conversation. I was scared of a war between Ulfric's men and the Empire. I worried what would happen, if the Thalmor cracked down on Skyrim. I told him what I worried about. Do you want to know what he said?'

He gave her another tiny nod, looking unsure of himself.

'Then I should warn you – my dad was a poet. He took me by the arm, and brought me outside. He pointed to some mountains that weren't far off, and asked me, what did I see? I thought he was having a laugh. I told him that I saw the same old mountains I saw every day – what did they have to do with anything? And his answer was 'everything'.' She remembered like it had happened yesterday, and didn't fight the stirring in her chest.

'Everything? Da, how can mountains be everything? You aren't making sense,' I'd said to him. He answered by telling me that I wasn't looking deep enough. He said to me...he told me that the mountains were a part of the land, part of the beauty that was Skyrim. And that our land had always been a part of the people who called Skyrim 'home'. He said that Skyrim was strong, and proud. Hard. Tough. And that because the people loved her so much, that we had grown to be the same. He told me that I might be right – that with so many strong, proud, hard people jostling, thinking they knew best, that it might result in war, and the loss that comes with it. I was frustrated with him. Why had he dragged me outside, just to tell me that?'

For a few seconds, they both just breathed. The only sounds were the men outside. Merrin closed her eyes, and got to the point.

'He just smiled at me. And then he told me that I needed to remember. Skyrim had been standing tall _long_ before the Nords came from Atmora. She'd been strong enough to withstand the tests of time...and then she withstood the tests of Man. What was the first thing the Nords brought to Skyrim? War. War that waged for generations, war that some never lived to see an end to. But the war _did_ end, and when it did, the land still flourished. And then the people learned from the land, and they were strong, too. That's been our gift from our home, more than anything else – the strength to endure. He said to me that, if war _did_ come, that we would all stand strong. And that when it eventually ended, the land would still be here, even if changed. The people would still be here, despite our losses. And that Skyrim would carry on.'

She opened her eyes, to find that Avulstein was staring hard at the ceiling. When she saw the tears in his eyes, watched a single one slide down his cheek, she thought maybe she hadn't done so badly – had said the right words, after all. Not wanting to hurt his pride, she stared down into her lap, instead, and finished up.

'Three years after he died, the war came. And I've done my best to stay away, because I don't think that it's for me. But I'm not worried like I was before. I know Skyrim will endure, no matter how long this war lasts. And the more people are brave enough to open their eyes like you did, the sooner it will be over.'

Quiet settled over the tent, and then stretched out and stayed there. Avulstein still looked tired, but not as lost, and she could feel that he'd stopped trembling. After another few seconds, she patted his arm and eased away, settling again on her own bedroll.

The minutes stretched on in silence, but the silence was somehow comfortable. Merrin wondered what he might've been thinking, but didn't feel the need to ask. She'd never told anybody else about that conversation with her father – but it had felt right, telling Avulstein. She'd felt like he'd needed to hear it, as she had.

Avulstein was the one to finally break it, by sniffing hard, and then sighing.

'Damn. Your da really _was_ a poet.'

He sounded better than he had, steadier. And she could hear jesting in his tone. So she smiled, and answered in kind.

'I _did_ warn you. Sometimes I think that blacksmithing just distracted him from his _true_ calling. He should've been a bard, or a writer.'

'You speak of him fondly. Seems you were lucky to have him.'

'Oh, I know. I definitely was.'

Avulstein sighed again, rolled onto his side on his bedroll, and Merrin turned her head to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes were clearer, and his face seemed calmer, and less burdened.

'He saw Skyrim for what it truly is. Thank you, Merrin, for sharing his view with me. I'd forgotten.'

'You don't need to thank me. I'm just glad I could help you at all. Gods know you have too many worries.'

'You _have_ helped, so you're _getting_ my thank-you.' He pursed his lips. 'As for my worries, I don't see them changing much, until I know what's happened to Thorald.'

'Tomorrow, we're hitting Northwatch Keep, and we're taking Thorald back, _alive_. Tell yourself _that_. Believe it.'

Avulstein was quiet for several seconds, staring at her with an odd expression on his face. Then he shook his head at her, and gave a little smile that was _so_ like Eorlund's.

'Who _are_ you really, you strange woman? Why did you leave the city to come running through the wilderness with a man you barely know, all to _try_ and save a total stranger? You make no sense.'

'I like to think I make _good_ sense, thanks.' She returned his smile with one of her own. 'And I may have barely known you, but you seem alright to me.'

'Oh? Based on what? My family?'

'Your family,' she conceded. 'Then there's the fact that you _didn't_ run me through when we met. And now I can add those stories I heard from the others tonight. Although,' she paused. 'Some of them were... _interesting_ , to say the least. And you call _me_ strange. _Pfft_.'

He picked up on the teasing in her voice right away, and his brows twitched. 'What are you trying to say?'

'Now, Avulstein, I mean _really_.' She laid down on her bedroll, turned her head to shoot him a grin.

'Riding _naked_ through the woods at night, without even a saddle? I'm not sure I can ever look at your poor horse the same again.'

He barked a laugh at that, and this time his lips twitched. ' _Ha!_ Oh, but you've got it wrong, there. That wasn't _my_ horse I rode. You think I would do that to Sleipnr? Think again, woman.'

She stared him down with eyes that were glittering, trying hard to hold back a laugh.

'You named...your horse...Sleipnr?' Then the laugh broke free from her chest, and she swatted at him with glee. ' _Someone_ thinks _very_ highly of himself!'

Avulstein blushed hard, hard enough to see in the dim light, and he looked aggrieved. 'I do _not_! What, a man can't enjoy the classic novels? Odin's horse was a _powerful_ beast—'

She was still laughing at him, covering her mouth to try and stifle the sound, and he broke off with a flustered waving of the arms.

'Oh, forget it! You-you harpy!' But his eyes were dancing as he said it, his red face contorting with restraint as he looked at her. And then the dam finally burst, and he laughed along with her.

The sight and sound of it did Merrin good, and they laughed together for some time, stifling the sounds as best they could, trying not to be heard by the men outside. When they had finally fallen silent, they looked at one other, smiling.

'Alright,' Merrin said quietly. 'Enough with the compliments. We have an early start ahead of us. We should _actually_ turn in.'

'You're right. Merrin? Really – thank you.'

'Glad to do it.'

They both settled under their covers, and it went still in the tent. For a minute, neither of them said a word.

Then Merrin piped up, innocently. 'Wait...are you sure _Sleipnr_ has everything he'll need for the night?' This question ended on the tiniest chuckle.

In response, she got a long sigh. But she imagined him smiling with his back to her.

'Merrin? Go to sleep.'


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: As promised, here is the twelfth chapter of A Warrior Rises, hand-made with a lot of love! To all of my readers old and new, thank you so much for being here. And as always, feel free to let me know what you think! Or come to gwap_queen00 on twitter and come to say hi – I'd love to hear from you.**

* * *

The two of them had risen and left Istar's camp before dawn, with the few men who were already awake calling after them in farewell and wishing them luck in their search. From the camp they had cut due northeast, riding at a canter across the plains. The day was grey and overcast, nothing like the one before, and it had been hard to track the sun's progress through the sky. But they'd made good time, and around what they estimated was mid-morning, they had come across the giant's pointing hand of stone like Haldr said they would. After passing it, they'd swung the horses north.

They had remembered Haldr's warning, and kept both eyes open for sabre-cats. And it was lucky they did; they'd been riding as fast as the ground had allowed when Merrin had the urge to look behind them. When she had, she'd seen a golden-brown sabre sprinting silently up behind them, chasing after Sleipnr and closing ground fast. She was quick with her bow, but had barely been quick enough – by the time she'd managed to drop the cat with an arrow to the heart, it hadn't been ten paces from Sleipnr's haunches. They hadn't dared to stop riding, not even to retrieve her arrow, and a pale-faced Avulstein had shouted his thanks. After that, they'd been twice as vigilant, checking behind them constantly.

Luckily, their caution had been wasted, and as they'd cantered straight towards a craggy mountain range, they hadn't had to fight off any more sabres. The downside had been that the nervous adrenaline had nowhere to go, and both of them suffered for it as they rode.

It had taken them a bit of time to actually _find_ the inlet Haldr had promised would be there. The mountains had rushed up to meet them, imposingly large as they drew in close, and both of them had been getting frustrated looking for one small pass. Time and miles had had an odd effect; the closer they got to Thorald, the more tense and urgent they'd become. They hadn't spoken as they'd searched, but both had experienced the same thing: every worry they'd had since they left Whiterun was growing insistently louder, until it was hard to think of anything else.

Eventually, Merrin's sharp eyes had caught a parting in the solid wall of rock, and Avulstein had exclaimed in relief before both of them had zipped towards the inlet. Once inside, they'd had to slow down; once they'd slowed down, they'd had to face their nerves. Avulstein had pointed out that they should eat – they hadn't yet that day, and they'd need their strength for the fight ahead. But it had been a half-hearted suggestion, and neither had reached for their rations. They'd both just shaken their heads, and admitted that they were too worked up for food.

As they'd worked their way up into the pass, the temperature had started dropping dramatically. The mountains provided a barrier from the cold of the sea to the plains below them, but up here, no such protection existed. It hadn't been long before both had donned their heavy cloaks, shivering as they watched their breath huff out in clouds of vapor. They'd climbed up, up, up some more, the horses trudging faithfully through a pass so narrow they rode single file. And then, just as the two had wondered when the pass would _ever_ end, they'd started climbing down.

And now, they'd arrived. Standing on a beach made of smooth black sand, shivering at the whips of wind that came belting off of the icy sea that was maybe a hundred paces away.

Merrin had never seen anything like it, with its waters of darkest grey-green, or the skids and bergs of ice that floated peacefully along like boats. But just then, the stark beauty was lost on her. All either of them could focus on was the fortress sitting further down the shore.

At last, Northwatch Keep.

It looked to be an _old_ fortress, with walls, towers and battlements made entirely of weathered grey stone, contrasted against a pearly grey sky. The timber wall _surrounding_ it seemed much newer, made of full logs fitted together, their tops all sharpened down into points.

With a look exchanged, they dismounted silently, and grabbed what they would need from their packs. Then they backtracked their horses, leading them into the pass and out of sight, and tethered them on a jutting piece of stone. Avulstein turned to her then, sighing out a white cloud, and looked at her seriously.

'We may well have to kill _all_ of them, to get Thorald out alive.'

She nodded. 'I know that.'

'And that's alright with you?'

She didn't answer for several seconds. The surge of adrenaline was still running strong through her veins, and it made things harder. But then she nodded again.

'I believe that all the races are equal. The Thalmor don't – you know as well as I do that we're all insects to them. Way I see it, the fewer Thalmor there are in Skyrim, the better. They've proven that we shouldn't show them mercy.'

They looked hard at one another for a long beat, and then Avulstein nodded.

'We agree. Let's do this.'

Examining the wooden perimeter, they saw two points of entry; the main gate, with a sentry standing guard, and a smaller side door, seemingly unmanned. It made smarter sense to slip in through the side. They ran for the door as quickly as they could bent double, and made it there unseen. Then, very carefully, they pressed themselves up to the rough wooden wall, and peered inside through the door.

They were looking into a courtyard. A forge sat cold and dead not ten paces to their right, and to the left sat a training ring with rotten hay dummies falling apart. The ground was smooth cobblestone, and in the middle of the courtyard was a set of wooden doors into the keep; they were flanked on either side by a stone set of stairs leading up to the battlements. At the far end of the courtyard was the main gate they'd avoided, and against the left wall were the stables – four stalls, all of them empty.

Most importantly of all, the courtyard was lightly manned. Merrin counted only three guards: one standing at the doors to the keep, one making a slow round of the battlements above, and the sentry at the main gate. Luck seemed to be with them – the guard holding the doors up was looking dead bored, and studying his fingernails. The one walking the battlements was half-way across the courtyard, and walking away from them. And the sentry was looking out from the gate, with his back turned.

She pulled back from the door, and waved for Avulstein to do the same.

'It looks like this'll be easy,' he whispered.

'We have to be careful,' she breathed, shaking her head. 'All these nerves – we need to calm down. Or we could make a mistake.'

He knew she was right, and the two of them took a moment, breathing steadily, steeling themselves, clamping down on their nerves and steadying their pounding hearts.

When she felt calmer, she pulled her bow from her back, and an arrow from her quiver, quiet as a whisper. Quickly, she nocked it, and then looked over to Avulstein.

'How's your aim with that bow?'

He winced, reached for the bow that he'd brought along, nestled beside his battleaxe.

'Shooting's not my strong suit. I'm better hand to hand.'

'Well,' she whispered, shaking her head, 'you'll just have to do your best. See that bell?'

Quickly, she pointed, and his eyes followed: across the courtyard, right beside the sentry at the main gate, a brass bell hung from a wooden post, with a rope attached trailing down to the ground.

'That's an alarm,' she breathed, and pulled him back out of sight. 'If we don't drop them fast enough, then one of them yanks that rope, and then whoever's sitting closest inside knows that something's wrong. Then the whole damn keep is on guard.' She eyed him pointedly.

'If that happens, then we're fucked. And so is your brother.'

Avulstein cursed, and raked his free hand through his hair. 'What if I miss?'

' _Don't_ miss,' she advised. 'I'm a good shot – I'll cover you. My first arrow goes to the one at the gate, closest to the bell. You aim at the _next_ closest. If your shot doesn't take them down, I'll finish them next. Alright?'

He nodded, dead serious. 'Alright.'

'The key here is _speed_. The quicker we get this done, the more likely it goes right. Make your shots count, and don't stop to see if they've hit. The second your arrow flies, I want you nocking the next one. Got it?'

'I've got it.'

'Alright. Don't shoot until I tell you. Aim for the face, or the chinks in the armor.'

Avulstein nocked his first arrow, and then exposing as little of themselves as possible, they inched back into the doorway. Merrin took a deep breath in, eyes locked on the exposed skin on the back of the sentry's neck, sixty paces away. She drew the string all the way back to her ear, holding it, holding it, fine-tuning her aim. Avulstein did something similar beside her.

She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.

 _Kynareth, guide me. Let my arrow fly true._

Then they opened again, the exhale came, and she whispered fiercely to Avulstein.

'Now.'

In unison, they loosed their arrows. And hers _did_ fly true; as she yanked the next from her quiver, she saw the sentry crumple in a heap with her first arrow buried deep in his throat. She didn't spare him another glance, and looked instead to the next guard, at the keep's doors.

Avulstein had missed his mark – what was meant to be a shot straight to the face had glanced off of the Thalmor's pauldron, and buried itself with a thud in the wood beside his head. The elf was turning towards them now, shock and then fury registering on his face as he saw the two of them crouched in the doorway.

She let her next arrow fly before he could turn or yell. This was an easier shot, and quick as a blink, it had found its mark. The tall elf fell back into the wooden doors behind him, slid down to the stone at his feet, and was still.

Avulstein yelped and she instinctively ducked; a split-second later, an elven arrow embedded itself deep in the log at her back, right about where her head had been. The guard on the battlements was an archer, and she had finally noticed what was happening below. Merrin cursed as she reached for a third arrow. Had Avulstein even had time to loose on her?

'That's it!' Avulstein growled, and she watched as he pitched his bow to the ground and shot out of his crouch, taking his battleaxe into both hands as he went.

Merrin rushed to nock her arrow as he sprinted up the nearest set of stairs, but she saw in a second that she wasn't needed.

The Thalmor archer had missed her next shot, unable to compensate for the hulking man barreling towards her. There was no time for another. With an efficient lack of ceremony, Avulstein rammed his axe shaft into her chestplate, sending her sprawling with the force. He closed the distance seamlessly – swung the axe high and brought it down _hard_. There was a wet and metallic crunch, and a sickening, gurgling moan, and the archer was no more. Avulstein grunted as he yanked the axe free...and then there was silence in the courtyard.

Merrin ran to the base of the steps, and he hurried back down to join her, the blade of his axe slick with blood. Adrenaline was pumping hard again, and the two of them stood as taut as bowstrings, listening for any sound, eyes searching for any hidden threat. After some time of nothing, they lowered their weapons and looked at each other, breathing hard in clouds of white.

'Sorry. Didn't wanna risk missing again.'

'That's alright.' She moved aside when he walked back to the side door, crouched to pick up his bow. 'I understand.'

Avulstein looked over to the sentry on the ground, and then the guard crumpled against the wooden doors. And then he looked back at her.

'You _are_ a good shot.'

'I told you so.' Then she jerked her head towards the keep. 'Come on, we've gotta be quick.'

He murmured agreement, and they hurried to the wooden doors that would lead them inside. Merrin bent to yank her arrow free from the eye-socket of the second guard, and then pushed the corpse aside with a booted foot. She turned to look at Avulstein with one hand on the door.

' _And_ quiet.'

He huffed, but he shouldered his battleaxe and readied his bow. With a grim look on her face, Merrin turned back around and pushed the door open as quietly as she could.

* * *

The keep turned out to be cold and eerie, with the flagstone floors and walls doing little to keep the outside chill at bay. Torches in brackets along the walls seemed to be the only sources of light, and every so often a cold draft would make them flicker and gutter, throwing long shadows over everything.

The two of them had developed a system of sorts; Merrin, being the better archer, had taken the lead as they crept along. Avulstein stayed ready behind her, watching for her signal, and listening for any sounds from behind.

They had opted for stealth over speed, despite their impatience – they were only two people against a whole fortress, and both of them knew that for even a chance at success, they had to take their enemies by surprise.

And there _had_ been enemies – plenty of them. So far they'd been lucky and careful enough to avoid an actual fight, and all of the noise that that would entail, with well-aimed arrows from the shadows.

They'd had a close call, when they'd rounded a corner and Merrin had suddenly come nose-to-nose with a mage who had muffled her footsteps. Merrin had very nearly screamed, and then had actually reached out and grabbed the elf by the robes, turning and shoving her into Avulstein. He'd been remarkably quick on the uptake, and wrapped one huge arm around her while clapping the opposite hand to her mouth, so that she couldn't scream. Merrin had acted fast from there, sliding Ria's dagger from her belt and plunging it into the Altmer's heart, and she died with a look of shocked outrage twisted on her pointed face.

They had stood there for several seconds, pale, wide-eyed and panting as they stared at one another in shock and Avulstein held up the dead mage's weight. And then they'd dragged her body behind a couple of upturned tables in a corner, and forged ahead.

Now they were crouched just outside of what seemed to be the mess hall. There was a fireplace inside, making the room brighter and warmer than the hallway they were hiding in. Merrin could see two men in the room – a barkeep at a long wooden counter cleaning a mug, and an off-duty guard on a stool across from him, eating something. Both were in plainclothes, and they were mid-conversation.

'...never should've come. What is there here? I mean, honestly. Even when a man _does_ have a few hours to himself, there's nothing to _do_. And no _one_. All I seem to do is work, and sit at this bar, talking to _you_. Er – no offense.'

'None taken, Calion.'

'You get it, don't you?'

'Sure, I do.'

'With Faldir in charge, we thought we could loosen up a bit. It's not like we ever _keep_ prisoners long! But _nooo_. Not with him trying to cozy up to the a prick.'

'I know, I know, it's rough. Another drink? Maybe it'll cheer you up.'

'Gods, why not? There's nothing better to do in this rathole.'

Merrin rolled her eyes, and turned back towards Avulstein, who was staring at her expectantly. She held up two fingers, and then pointed towards herself: there were two of them, and she could handle it. He nodded, and rolled onto the balls of his feet – ready and waiting.

Her first arrow embedded itself into the back of the guard who'd been eating dinner. He jerked like a marionette and gave a floundering gasp, reaching wildly for the shaft that had surely pierced a lung, and then fell from his stool with a halting moan. The barkeep had been topping up the guard's flagon, and so saw him jerk and fall. He stared with horror at the man on the ground, and then his eyes flitted up, catching Merrin's directly.

He had fast reflexes; he gave a little yelp and dove to the floor behind the bar, just in time to miss the arrow meant for his face.

'Wait! Gods, wait, don't do this!' The altmer wailed.

 _Shit_. Quickly she turned to Avulstein, jerking her head to the right.

'One behind the bar. Go!'

He nodded and drew his dagger from his belt as he launched himself into the room, prepared to vault over the bar.

'Gods, _no!_ Don't kill me!' The barkeep shouted again, and there was the sound of a bottle breaking against stone. ' _Please – I can help you!'_

There was a scuffling noise, and the crashing of many more bottles hitting stone. And then the barkeep sprang back into view, standing at the farthest corner of the bar. He was nearly hyper-ventilating, and his eyes were wild in his golden face as he looked from one of them to the other. Both of his hands were raised in the air, and one was holding the neck of a broken wine bottle. He was shaking so badly, it was a wonder he didn't drop it.

'Please! I can _help_ you! _Listen to me!'_ The elf was pleading, desperate.

Avulstein was having none of it. He'd made it to the bar, and he growled like an actual angry dog as he vaulted over it. He advanced on the barkeep with his dagger ready, closing the gap between them in one powerful lunge. The barkeep cringed, and closed his eyes.

' _Avulstein, wait! WAIT!_ '

The words came tearing out of Merrin unbidden, unplanned. She had no idea why, but she felt in her pounding heart that she had to stop him.

Miraculously, Avulstein _did_ stop in time – the tip of his dagger drew up an inch from the barkeep's heaving chest. Now he was looking at _her_ with wild eyes, as if she'd lost her mind.

'Wait,' she said again, rushing up to the bar. 'Just – just wait.'

'Wait for _what?!'_ He demanded.

She realized in that moment how crazy she seemed; they were in a place where every second mattered, and they were surrounded by enemies. The man she'd _personally_ shot a few seconds ago was on the flagstone, wheezing feebly, taking his time to die. And still. There was something different here, pulling at her. She shook her head.

'This one's different.'

' _Why?_ Because he said _please_?!' He waved his dagger wildly in the direction of the barkeep, still gasping in the corner. 'He's _Thalmor_ , Merrin. We have to kill him!'

' _Wait,'_ she ordered again, firmly. 'He said he could _help_ us. Let's just take a _second_ , and hear what he has to say.'

'We don't _have_ a second,' Avulstein snapped.

'We might be able to get something useful out of him,' Merrin insisted. 'Just wait, one _minute_. We can always kill him _after_ that, if we have to. Alright?'

He glowered at her, expression thunderous; on the floor beside her, the guard gave one last wheeze, and expired. Between them, the barkeep flitted wide eyes from one to the other, repeatedly.

' _Alright_?'

After another long, tense second, Avulstein cursed again. Then he nodded, once.

'Fine. _One_ minute.'

He stabbed his dagger into the wooden bar, and took the last step he needed to be right in the barkeep's face. Quick as a snake, he ripped the broken bottle from his shaking hand and whipped it into the wall beside them, where it shattered into little more than sand. Then he grabbed a fistful of the elf's tunic, and yanked him right up onto the bar, slamming him into the wall.

'Give me a reason why I shouldn't _gut_ you, you Thalmor pig.'

'Because,' he gasped, 'I'm _not_ Thalmor, I swear. I'm not!'

'What do you _mean_ , you aren't Thalmor?' Avulstein barked. 'This is a gods-damned fort full of Thalmor _agents_.' Disgusted, he looked up at Merrin, and shook his head.

'See? I told you. This little pissant's just lying to us.'

She held up a hand to quiet him, and looked instead at the elf on the bar. It was hard to tell with elves, but something about him made him seem young – not a child, but not a man long. He was tall, and lean, with blonde hair pulled back in a tail and big green eyes. He looked like he was going to cry, and he was still breathing fast and hard.

'If you aren't a Thalmor agent, what are you doing here, in this keep?' She asked him levelly.

'I _swear_ to you, I'm no Thalmor.' He clearly took them seriously, and with less than a minute to prove his innocence, he was talking fast. He gulped, and tried to pull himself together before he continued.

'I'm here because my uncle is here. He's second in command of this fort. But I'm no agent – I'm just a bartender! He took me with him from the Isles because of how I mix an Old Epiphany! Said no one else in Skyrim would do it right.'

Avulstein _hmphed_ at that response, like all his suspicions had been confirmed, and shook the other man by the collar.

'Oh, yeah? That a fact? Tell me, how _stupid_ do you think I am? How stupid are _you_? You're family to some bigshot Thalmor, and you expect us to let you _go_? You would go running right to him!'

'No!' The altmer shook his head furiously. 'I couldn't. My uncle isn't even here right now!'

Avulstein's eyes widened; the altmer seemed to realize his mistake, and hurried on in a stumble.

'B-but I w-wouldn't even if I could! You've got to believe me, _please_!'

'Why should we?' Merrin asked her question much more calmly than Avulstein. 'Why _wouldn't_ you tell your own uncle about intruders in the keep?'

He slumped then, eyes closing, and his head met the stone wall behind him with a thud. His breathing slowed dramatically, and when he looked at her again, his face was etched with misery.

'I know it sounds ridiculous. But you've got to understand – I don't want to die. I wouldn't go to my uncle because I don't _care_ what happens to this keep. When we left the Isles, he had me convinced that he would be doing important work. Work that would benefit the Empire _and_ Dominion. He told me I'd have an opportunity to do my part, and meet some of the _brave_ men and women that were helping to keep our treatise together.'

The mer's mouth twisted bitterly. 'He fooled me. I was naive, and when I came here a year ago, I believed him. But now I know better. The 'work' that goes on here insults the gods themselves. And the people that do it aren't heroes, they're sadists.' He looked Merrin dead in the eye, and she saw that he looked defeated.

'All I want is _out_.'

More than a minute had passed. Across the bar from her, Avulstein had gone from looking cold and stony, to antsy and doubtful.

Merrin tilted her head, eyed the elf carefully.

'If all you want is out, then why haven't you left?'

Again, he slumped. This time, Avulstein let go of his shirt.

'Because I'm stuck here. I hate this place, but I'm stuck. My uncle is a powerful man – a mage, with a lot of connections. And he _is_ Thalmor. He believes in 'the cause'. If I tried to leave, he would question it. Try to dissuade me. Restrain me, if it came to it.' His voice was hollow now, with a different kind of fear than he'd had for them.

'If _any_ of these sick bastards knew how I really felt about this place, I would already be dead. Or worse.'

For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the fire in the hearth. In the back of Merrin's mind, a voice nagged her, telling her that every second they stood here made it more likely they'd be caught. Externally, she squared her shoulders.

'Then how about a show of good will?' Her voice was flat. 'You said you could help us – prove it, by giving us some answers. What is your name? Your uncle's name? And where is your uncle, if he isn't here?'

'Lloderion,' the elf answered quickly. 'That's our family name. I'm Alaril, and my uncle is Calril. He left three days ago for the Thalmor embassy, north of Solitude, to meet with Ambassador Elenwen. She takes a personal interest in all keeps like this. And she and my uncle are apparently old friends.' Again, his face darkened. 'Some ambassador. You want twisted? Try _her_ on for size.'

This hadn't been part of the plan. Over the bar, Merrin and Avulstein locked eyes. The question was clear: what do we do now?

He was aldmeri, but he insisted he wasn't Thalmor. He sounded sincere...but what if he was _lying?_ He could _ruin_ their chances of saving Thorald. And he'd heard both of their names. But he'd _given_ his own, and information that could compromise this supposed uncle – _if_ that wasn't a fabrication, too.

She bit her lip. Seconds passed. Avulstein was sweating, his brow deeply furrowed. She could feel her heartbeat all the way to her toes. The air smelled so strongly of wine that she could taste it.

And then Avulstein gave her the tiniest of nods, and his expression changed. It spoke very plainly: _your call_.

They couldn't waste any more time. She didn't question his sudden deference – just went with her gut. Quickly, she turned back to Alaril.

'Alaril. Let's say, hypothetically, that we're willing to let you leave this place. What could you tell us about what's ahead, in trade?'

The elf stared at her, wide-eyed. 'You're serious? You would let me go?'

'I _said_ hypothetically. A trade. What's waiting for us, up ahead? How many guards?'

He spluttered. 'Well—that depends! How deep do you plan to go?'

'Let's say all the way through.'

Alaril sucked in a breath, let it out. Looked at Avulstein, then at her.

'You're going to have a hard time. Down this hallway and some stairs is the library. I don't know how you got this far—'

'The bloody way,' Avulstein interrupted.

Alaril blinked twice, looked back to Merrin.

'—But you won't make it through the library without _someone_ noticing you. It has two levels, and both are patrolled by at least two guards, because it's where the mages do their work. One has an office on the ground floor. The other is Faldir, the head...interrogator.' He shivered. 'He has an office on the second level, and if he's not busy with anyone, he'll be in the library too.'

Avulstein had abruptly gone back to looking murderous, and Merrin didn't have to guess why. Quickly, she pushed on.

'Alright. So the library will be a fight. What then? What's after the library?'

'Just the cells, the interrogation rooms, and the back exit.'

'Where exactly is this exit?'

'Up some stairs beyond the cells. That door will be locked. Faldir keeps the only key.'

She stared hard at Alaril, and he stared back, desperation on his face.

'So, what then? Are you going to let me go? Or are you going to let your friend here gut me?'

 _No time for indecision. Just go with your instinct._

'We're letting you go.' She watched him sag against the stone wall, clutching his chest, and continued quickly. 'You should go the way we came. The way is clear for now.'

'And be quick about it,' Avulstein threw in. 'I've got somewhere to be, and I'm not turning my back to you.'

'Of course.' Alaril nodded quickly and slid down from the bar, looking dishevelled. 'I'll go right now, and get out of your hair. You won't regret this, I swear. I—'

He broke off mid-sentence, mouth open, staring at both of them for a second with dawning intensity. Then he shook his head.

'Wait. I have an idea. There's something _more_ I can do to help.'

* * *

When Alaril burst through the doors of the library and started yelling to the guards to _help, come quickly_ , the two making their rounds on the ground level had been quick to follow him as he dashed back down the hall with swords drawn and ready. Through the open door to the mess hall, they saw him kneeling on the ground, cradling a seemingly wounded Calion, calling for them to hurry up.

When they ran across the threshold, what they _hadn't_ seen became their bigger problem. From where they'd been waiting with weapons drawn on either side of the door, Merrin and Avulstein each stuck out a booted foot, tripping the guards and sending them sprawling out onto the flagstone. Before the Thalmor even had the chance to turn over, the unseen enemies were bringing their weapons down.

It was over in seconds. But it hadn't been particularly quiet, and in _another_ few seconds they heard a harsh voice, calling down the hallway to fallen fellows who wouldn't answer...

There was no time. Merrin whipped her head around to Alaril, who was standing over Calion's corpse, looking dumb-founded.

'You need to go, _now_ ,' she whispered urgently.

'What about the two of _you_?' He hissed back.

'We can handle ourselves. You need to leave this place!'

He nodded grimly. 'I need to leave _Skyrim_. Go somewhere the Thalmor won't come looking...'

There was an even louder shout from the library, calling out the names of the dead guards, demanding that they answer. And then the unmistakable sound of booted feet, running.

'Alaril, _leave_!' With the hand that wasn't holding her sword, Merrin shoved him. ' _Go_!'

He stumbled in the direction of the opposite door, green eyes pinned to her brown ones.

'I'm going. I'll never forget this. Either of you.'

'Thank you, for all your help. Go.'

He dove to grab one of the fallen swords, and then he bolted across the room. He stood for one beat inside the threshold, wide eyes on both of them, and raised his free hand.

'Good luck,' he called. And then he was gone.

Just as she turned back to face the closer doorway, another two guards with swords drawn came running through it, and then the _real_ fight began.

There was no taking these men by surprise, and they weren't stupid. After several rounds of steel on steel, the Thalmor had retreated back down the hallway, back into the library, yelling to alert the mages that there were intruders ahead. Merrin and Avulstein were right on their heels, and entered the library a breath behind them – and it was _still_ nearly too late.

The second they'd cleared the threshold and barrelled into the two-story room with its stone walls and heavy wooden bookshelves, the door behind them had slammed shut, propelled by some spell, and Merrin heard the click of the lock engaging. There would be no retreat.

The guards who were still just ahead of them both dove away and to the side. A split-second later, Merrin and Avulstein were forced to do the same when a mage at the foot of some stairs sent a volley of ice-spikes hurtling toward them. They only _just_ dodged in time, and the spikes embedded themselves into the wooden door with the strength and force of steel javelins.

From there, the fight devolved into chaos. It was two against _five_ , with two guards, two mages, and _another_ archer all pressing down on them from three directions. Taking down the swordsmen in front of you was nearly impossible, when you also had to focus on dodging arrows, ice-spikes and bolts of _lightning_. They made mistakes—one second too long with her attention on the guard trying to lop her arms off, and if Merrin hadn't happened to turn her head, the arrow that glanced off her helmet with a dull _ping_ would've found her face instead. Avulstein fell for a feint, and paid for it with a long slash to the arm.

'Is that all you've _got?'_ He yelled to the guard. But she could hear the pain in his voice.

She took a chance then, and using the momentum of a parried strike, she stepped right in and bashed the pommel of her sword into the Thalmor's unprotected nose. She couldn't hear the crunch, but the instant spurting of blood told her that she'd broken it, and the Thalmor lurched forward, bringing his free hand to his face.

The mage ahead of them saw what happened, and was quick to shoot another volley of spikes her way. But Merrin managed to be quicker. She grabbed the guard by the straps of his chestplate and used him as a living shield, turning their bodies so that when the spikes hit, it wasn't _her_ they were hitting. One after the other, they pierced the guard's gilded armor and buried themselves in the flesh underneath – skewering him. His bloodied face registered shock and pain, and then it went lax. Eyes rolled into the back of his head, and then his head flopped forward on his neck as he crumpled, becoming dead weight.

The mage realized his mistake, and yelled with as Merrin dropped the body and started running for the cover of the nearest bookcase. Two more spikes came hurtling toward her as she ran; she only managed to miss them by a breath, and as she dove behind the bookcase, they shattered against the stone wall behind her into a spray of shards.

Sheathing her sword as fast as she could, Merrin grabbed her bow instead, and then an arrow from her quiver. As she drew it along the string, her eyes flitted over and found Avulstein, still fighting with the other guard. He was bleeding freely from his arm, but still managed to block a strike with the haft of his axe _while_ dodging a crackle of electricity levelled his way by the other mage. While Merrin watched, he jerked the haft up and cracked it into his enemy's head. When the Thalmor staggered, disoriented, Avulstein gave him a brutal kick to the knee that sent the leg folding in the wrong direction, and the elf fell screaming to the ground.

With a clear shot, Merrin quickly loosed her arrow and watched it sink into that same screaming mouth. The Thalmor gave a terrible jerk, and then he fell quiet, helmet clattering against the flagstone. Avulstein saw the arrow, and his head snapped up to meet her gaze as she waved her bow at him.

'Take _cover_ ,' she yelled.

He did just that; he scrambled for the bookcase opposite hers, and made it just in time to avoid another searing _crack_ of lightning. For a second they just sat there, breathing hard, thinking fast. They locked eyes again, and Merrin signalled that she was going to take a look.

She tilted her head to peek down the aisle of shelves, exposing as little as she could. But the ice mage must have anticipated her – the second she poked part of her head out, he sent a spike flying out with deadly accuracy. Merrin _yanked_ her head back, but only in the nick of time. The projectile sliced her cheek as it whistled by, and as it shattered on the stone behind them, she felt the sting of pain, and then the seep of blood.

From the level above, the second mage laughed, and then called down to them.

'What is this? You can't hide forever, _filth_.'

'I have no plans to,' Merrin muttered. She took another deep breath, nocked and drew back another arrow, and lunged out from the cover of the bookcase.

What Merrin didn't know when she whirled around was that, since he'd managed to slice her cheek, the mage on the ground floor had moved. He'd had the idea to use the upper level to see if he could find an angle where the intruder's bookshelves didn't protect them.

He was most of the way up the staircase when Merrin moved to shoot him; in the split-second before she'd loosed the arrow, she'd had to adjust her aim.

And she missed her mark; what she'd intended for the heart ended up buried in the stomach – a wound that, while likely fatal, wouldn't kill right away. She snarled at her own mistake, and started to reach for another arrow.

But luck was on their side. The mage jerked back as the arrow pierced him, and then lurched forward as he doubled over in sudden agony. The movement caused him to lose his footing on the old stone steps, and he slipped, going down with a yell. The spill sent him tumbling head over heels down the unforgiving stone, and _that_ unhappy accident achieved what Merrin's arrow hadn't. When he landed at the base of the steps, the mage was bloody, broken, and unmoving.

Avulstein saw what happened just as she did, and he took advantage of the moment. With a determined yell he gripped his battleaxe, springing from his cover like a sabre-cat and sprinted headlong down the aisles of books, headed straight for the other mage. Merrin watched as he leapt over the body at the foot of the stairs, and then dodged two crackling blue bolts as he climbed, one after the other.

He made it to the cowled Thalmor mage, and took his first brutal swing with the axe—but the mage dodged the attack. Nimbly, he sprang back, and as the heavy axe whistled through nothing but air and Avulstein was thrown off balance, Merrin watched the mage's hands fill with crackling energy.

She tried to yell out a warning, but it was too late.

With another cruel laugh that echoed through the room, the mage unleashed his magic on Avulstein. He jolted at the electricity's burn, and was forced to drop his battleaxe with a bellow of pain. Then his body arched with the current, stiff and unnatural, and he started convulsing horribly.

For a heartbeat Merrin could only watch, horrified as Avulstein's body jerked. But then she yanked herself ruthlessly out of it, and moved.

Reaching for one of the last arrows in her quiver, she darted fully out from cover. She stood tall as she drew the bow's string back, and took aim at the mage's unarmored chest. She didn't waste time second-guessing the shot; just exhaled as she let it fly.

The very next thing she was conscious of was a tearing, searing pain.

She'd been so caught up in helping Avulstein that she'd forgotten about the archer, still alive and well and in the room. But the archer hadn't forgotten her; as soon as Merrin had darted from cover, he'd lined up a shot of his own. He'd hoped to take her down before she could intervene, and had just barely been too slow for that. But his arrow found her all the same.

As a cry of pain wrenched its way out of Merrin, she knew without looking that she'd been shot. It had happened too many times in recent years for the feeling to be unfamiliar, and even as her mind blanched from the pain of it, she bore down on her resolve. She knew that she needed some cover, and that it was waiting behind her.

But when she tried to take a step backward, she only collapsed to the flagstone. When she spit out a curse and looked herself over, she saw part of an arrow shaft buried in the meat of her thigh, and blood running freely from the wound.

 _Arrow pierced the mail of my chausses,_ she thought, distantly. _I just fucking had these made._

The more pressing issue was the Thalmor archer. Merrin looked from her leg to the second level of the library and saw him standing there, across the room and high above her. He'd watched her fall, knew she wasn't finished. And now as she watched, he was nocking an arrow for a second shot. There was nothing she could do to defend herself – she didn't even have time to scramble for cover. She was having trouble hearing anything over the rush of blood in her ears, but she did the only thing she could think to. She called for help.

' _AVULSTEIN!'_

For a second, nothing changed. The archer didn't even flinch, and drew back his string to bury another arrow in her.

But before he could loose, he noticed something she couldn't see and lunged wildly to the side with fear on his face and his perfect shot in ruins.

Then she saw Avulstein. From beyond the bookcase blocking her view, he sprinted into frame with a roar so loud, it cut through the pounding in her head. He had no weapon she could see, but he didn't seem to need one – in one smooth move, he smashed the archer's helmeted head against the stone railing of the upper level, and the Thalmor went limp. Then, still roaring, he grabbed the other man with both hands and tossed him head-first right over the railing. When he met the flagstone floor below, there was a snapping sound Merrin couldn't hear.

Silence descended over the room, and as she lay there panting and in pain, she realized that the fight was over.

'Hang on!'

There was some to-do she couldn't see while Avulstein rushed to grab his axe, and then he was clattering down the stairs and running to her side. She looked up at him, and saw that he was looking _rough_. The skin she could see was already blooming with burst capillaries, and his thick grey hair was mostly standing on end.

He sucked in a hissing breath when he saw the arrow in her thigh, and shook his head as he knelt down beside her.

'That'll need to come out. How's your pain?'

She grimaced. 'I've had worse. The mage?'

'Dead. Too busy with me to see your arrow coming – thank the gods. You really saved my ass.'

That was something. At least she hadn't taken the arrow pointlessly. In spite of her pain, she cracked a smirk.

'I _told_ your mother I'd have your back. Thanks for having mine.'

'Don't mention it.' Grimly, he smiled back. 'Now, who's ripping this out of your leg? Me, or you?'

Her smile slid off, replaced by a scowl, and she let her head fall back with a thud onto the flagstone.

'The honor's all yours. It looks like it went in pretty clean – try and take it _out_ clean. I've lost all the blood I care to lose already.'

He barked a mirthless laugh, grabbed her leg and held it down.

'Then I have bad news for you.'

* * *

There was a flash of red-hot pain as he yanked the arrow free that had Merrin howling every curse word she could think of as she writhed and beat her fists against the stone. He let her go as soon as he was finished, and rocked back on his haunches out of her reach, looking mildly impressed. When she finally petered out and just lay there panting, he nodded, brow arched.

'Thanks for the suggestion. I'd never _thought_ of doing that with a goatherd's motherless son. How's it feel _now_?'

' _Bastard_! Asshole! Nothing but a gods-damned sadist,' she growled.

'That's about what I figured,' he replied, unruffled. 'Think you can walk? We need to keep going.'

She hissed out a breath, ground her teeth. 'Of _course_ I can walk. Just help me up. Bastard.'

'A simple 'thank you' would be fine, y'know. It's not like _I'm_ the one who shot you.'

'Oh, shut up,' she groaned as he pulled her to her feet, and tried to put some weight on the leg. 'And _thank_ you, for causing me considerable pa _AII—!'_

Her words melted into another howl as her right leg buckled underneath her, and Avulstein snatching and holding her up was the only thing that kept her from a reunion with the floor. She snarled with frustration and pain as streaks of flame raced up and down her leg, and then hissed out a long, defeated breath.

'Alright. Maybe I _can't_ walk.'

Blood was dripping steadily down her leg and onto the stone, and Avulstein was starting to look worried.

'You need healing.'

'I'll take care of myself if I can spare the magicka, _after_ I've done what I can for your brother. I'm sure he's much worse off than me.'

'But—'

'Your _brother_ ,' she growled. 'He'll need it more than I do.'

'Then we're doing this the hard way,' he replied, aggravated. 'That altmer kid said the interrogator would have the key. We need that key, and some robes.' Gently, he set her back down on the ground.

'What are you...?' She asked his retreating back. But he just ignored her and hurried off.

After a minute she heard an ' _aha!'_ from somewhere on the upper level, and then his booted footsteps hurrying back. When he came back into view, he had a set of black mage robes draped on one arm, and what looked like frost mirriam clutched in one hand. Kneeling, he came back to her side.

'You're not gonna like me much for this.'

Then, efficiently, the soldier went to work. Merrin was rolled onto her side, and then quickly stripped of both chausses and breeches. Before she could really protest, the frost mirriam was packed into her wound – and then the library was filled with fresh cursing. Ignoring her squirming and swearing, he used his dagger to cut long strips from the robes he'd taken, and tightly bound her thigh with them.

With the blood flow staunched, she was rolled over again, and breeches and chausses were put back in place. Then Avulstein settled back on his haunches, using leftover robe to wipe her blood off his hands.

She lay there panting for a few moments, willing the worst of the fresh pain to pass, and then she looked over at him with a glare – but only a half-hearted one.

'You were right. I _don't_ like you much right now.'

'You're welcome.' He shook his head, and when he turned to face her, his expression was unusually soft.

'It means a lot, that you'd save your magic to help my brother. Thank you.'

She stopped glaring, and just grimaced instead. 'You can thank me after we've found him. We need to move. Getting shot wasn't part of my plan and we can't waste any more time.'

'When is getting shot _ever_ part of the plan?' But he hauled her to her feet all the same, snagged her bow up from where she'd dropped it, and handed it back to her. 'Try the leg now.'

When she tried again to take a step and nearly buckled for the third time, he ignored her thunderous expression and just nodded.

'Alright, that settles it.'

He stooped to brace an arm under knees and back, and then scooped her up into his arms, lifting Merrin clear off the ground. She clucked with embarrassed disapproval.

'What are you doing? You have enough to worry about without carrying _me_. I can suck it up and walk.'

He snorted. 'You paint a heroic picture. But you said it yourself – we can't waste any time.'

Again, she knew he was right. And again, it rankled. She relaxed in his arms with a huff and focused on their task as he started for the stairs.

'Did you find the key?'

He nodded. 'On the mage upstairs.'

She _tsk_ ed again. 'You think of how you're gonna fight like this, if we hit any more guards?'

'Simple enough. I'll just dump you in a corner and use _your_ sword.'

'Oh, great plan. Just _perfect_.'

* * *

It hadn't been very long before they'd needed to use Avulstein's plan. Through a doorway and up _another_ set of stairs had taken them to a platform on a corridor, with a door to the left _and_ the right. Alaril hadn't told them which doors led to where, so they could only guess as to where the cells were. They'd chosen the door to the right, and they'd _found_ the cells – but they'd also found a very surprised, angry guard. Merrin had been dumped into the doorway, Avulstein had rushed forward with her sword, and she'd stood there and watched as he cut the guard down.

There'd been no yelling or cheering during the fight from any of the cells ahead, and that worried her. As he pulled her bloody blade from the Thalmor's chest and looked up to meet her stare, the chamber they were in fell silent; there wasn't a sound to be heard other than Avulstein's breathing. That was strange, too.

But it was the smell, once she noticed it, that really filled her with dread. Despite how cold it was in the chamber, there was a creeping odor pervading the air: beyond the stench of shit and piss, sweat and mildew all combined...there was the smell of rot. There was the smell of death.

He'd left her propped in the doorway and was walking now towards the cells, to look for Thorald. Feeling sick with dread, she reached out a hand in his direction and started to call out a warning. Couldn't he smell it, too?

'Avulstein, there's something—'

Too late. He made it to the first of the cells, and whatever he saw inside had him moaning in horror, face going pale. He reached out with one hand to grab an iron bar, and shook his head, looking scared.

'What is it? What do you see? What...? _Avulstein!_ '

He wouldn't answer her – was simply rushing now from cell to cell, cursing and moaning, looking more upset with every second. Even from across the room his eyes were wild, and he shook his head furiously as he went, shaking the bars on the doors. He was starting to mutter to himself.

'No, _no_. He can't be. He... _no_...'

There was nothing for it. Clenching her teeth and ignoring the pain, Merrin started limping her way over to him to see the problem for herself. She used the rough stone walls for support, and as she neared the closest cell, the dread in her stomach turned to real fear. Anything that upset Avulstein this much was going to be _bad_...

When she finally grabbed the bars of the first cell and peered in, she gave a soft gasp of her own, and a curse.

It _was_ bad. A Stormcloak soldier lay crumpled in a heap on the straw-covered floor of the cell. He was dead, and obviously had been for some time; his cuirass was bloody and torn, his face beaten into a bloated mess of dark bruising, and he'd already started to decay. The smell of rot was _much_ stronger here, and it was hard for her not to gag.

There were two rows of six cells in the room, and the three closest had very similar contents. Three other Stormcloak men, all badly beaten and killed, left to rot in the straw. It was obvious that they'd suffered terribly, _and_ that they hadn't all died on the same day.

The last of the four looked recent; he sat slumped against the back wall of his cell, hands pressed to a dark, sticky mess at his abdomen. Glassy blue eyes stared out lifelessly from a filthy face, and tracks in the dirt on his cheeks told her that he'd been crying when he died. There was a look on his frozen face that made her have to turn away, and her own eyes burned as she realized what had happened: one by one, these men had been killed, and the Thalmor had left them to rot in their cages, so that their friends who weren't dead yet had had to see and _smell_ them.

 _The fucking animals._

She turned to Avulstein, eyes watering, and saw that he'd fallen to his knees in front of the cell across from her, forehead pressed to the bars. He turned to face her when she reached out and touched him, and his dark blue eyes were tortured and wet when they locked with hers.

'The bastards.' His voice shook, and so did he. 'This is what they do, Merrin. Those soulless fucking _creatures_. These were good men. They—' He bit off the words, and slammed a fist into the bars instead, shaking as he looked away.

'Those bastards are dead, Avulstein. _We_ killed them. They won't be hurting anybody else, ever again.'

His eyes flashed, and he shook his head. 'Dead is too fucking _good_ for them. A quiet arrow to the chest? M _uch_ too good. They deserved to suffer. They should've paid. _I_ should've made them,' he ended in a whisper.

She hissed as she let go of the bars, and took a single unaided step toward him. She knew that there was nothing she could say that would help him, so she just put a hand on his shoulder, and gently asked him a question.

'Is Thorald here?'

He sniffed hard, and shook his head.

'No. No, none of these are Thorald. They're his friends, from his posting...' Again, his hands clenched into fists. 'But no.'

'So there's still hope. We can still find him.' Merrin gave his shoulder a gentle shake. 'There are still places we haven't looked. We should move.'

She really _did_ have hope, but she had selfish motives, too; the longer she stood among these corpses, the harder it was not to curse, to yell...to weep. She'd never even met these men, and yet she still felt that she'd failed them.

Avulstein nodded once, hard, and came quickly to his feet with another sniff. He looked away from the cells and down at her, and his expression was settling into determined lines.

'You're right. There's nothing we can do for them, now. Let's go get my brother.'

She sheathed her sword when he handed it to her, and they were about to move on, when they heard a quiet clanking sound coming from the cell farthest from them. And then a dry, raspy voice, calling out to the room.

'Who – who goes there? Please, wait.'

Merrin felt all of the blood drain from her face at the sound, and when she looked to Avulstein, he was just as pale. They locked eyes for part of a second, both full of dread—and then he scooped her into his arms and hurried down the row of cells.

He set her down again at the cell farthest right, and came to stand beside her as she grasped the metal bars. It was darker in this corner of the room, with the torches in their brackets far away, and it took their eyes several seconds to adjust before they could see inside.

What she saw when her eyes adjusted broke her heart.

In the darkness near the far wall of the cell were three Khajiit – a man, a woman, and a child. The two adults were staring at them with eyes that flashed green and yellow in the dim torchlight.

Merrin could see they were afraid from the way they hung back in the shadows. And she could see that they'd suffered terribly here; the stench of voiding was unbearable, with all of the filthy straw in the cell pushed into a far corner. The three of them were all thin and dirty, and the clothing they wore was little more than rags.

The man was standing tall over the woman, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with the child in her lap. The child's eyes were closed, and he didn't stir in the woman's arms.

Again, the tears pressed down on Merrin; again, she staved them off. She had to talk around a lump in her throat, and when she did her voice quavered.

'Hello? We aren't here to hurt you.'

'No? Tell Khajiit, what brings you to this place?'

It was the man who had spoken, who had first called out to them. As he spoke now, he took one tiny step away from the other two in the cell. The rasp in his voice made Merrin wonder how long it had been since he'd had any water.

'We came here to free a prisoner,' she answered quietly. 'Someone important to my friend, here.'

The ragged, tawny Khajiit eyed the both of them. 'A friend? Family?'

'Family,' Avulstein answered, and surprised her. 'My brother.'

'I see.' The man nodded, and took another step forward. The woman behind him made a noise of distress, and it caused him to pull up short. Merrin could see his face more clearly now, and she saw a quiet sort of desperation there that made her stomach twist.

'Then perhaps you could be moved to mercy, for a Khajiit and _his_ family?' He gestured back to the two huddled on the flagstone. 'If this door is left unopened, we all will perish. It has been many moons since Khajiit have felt the clean air on our faces. Many moons since we've been fed.' He took another step forward, and bowed his shaggy head.

'You've killed our captors, yes? If not you, who will open Khajiit's door now?'

'Please.' The anguish of it was too much, and she held up a hand against the bars to stop him. 'Of course we'll open the door. We wouldn't think of leaving you here. Where are the keys to the cells?'

The man looked up quickly, with an expression on his face like he was scared to believe her. Behind him, his wife looked much the same.

'Truly? Khajiit thought he would need to beg. Clearly, he cannot barter.'

'I'm not a monster.' Her voice was thick with emotion. 'I _kill_ monsters. Where are the keys?'

The Khajiit's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He blinked twice, rapidly.

'You must pardon Khajiit. He never expected...' he cleared his throat, another raspy sound. 'There are...two keys. The key to the cells sits in a locked chest, in that far corner. The key to said chest hangs on the belt of that dead elf.' With one clawed finger, he pointed to the Thalmor Avulstein had killed.

Avulstein cut in quickly. 'I'll get the keys. You just rest here.' She nodded, he walked away, and she was left alone with the family in front of her.

Husband and wife had gone back to staring at her silently. The woman was running her fingers through her son's hair, brushing it away from his face. It was an absent-minded gesture, but it yanked on Merrin's heart-strings. In the sudden silence, she _had_ to ask.

'Please, can you tell me what _happened_ to you? Why did the Thalmor bring you here?'

'You wish to know what our crime was?' The woman asked from her place on the floor, and sounded weary and sad.

Merrin shook her head. 'I wouldn't assume there was any crime at all. I just want to know what happened, if you'll tell me.'

'Then you would be wiser than most Khajiit have met here, in Skyrim,' the man interjected. 'The people here distrust Khajiit – think us all liars and thieves. This is not so, of course, but who listens to truth when they think they already know it?'

He broke into a sudden fit of dry coughing, and Merrin cursed herself for leaving her water-skin in her pack. The poor man was probably dying of thirst! His wife reached out to him, worried, but he saw her expression and waved her away. As soon as he could rein in the coughing, he continued in a quieter voice than before.

'Rest, Zita. I'll be fine.' He held a hand out to her as he looked back, and for the briefest of moments their fingertips touched. Words passed unspoken between them, and then the husband turned back to face Merrin again, continuing where he'd left off.

'For these elves, it is different. They hate Khajiit and look on us with scorn, just for walking under the same sun they do. They look, and see little more than animals. This is why they have taken the Khajiit's proud homeland. They wish to see our bones picked clean like carrion in the desert, and then watch those bones sink into the sand.'

'They're wrong. So wrong.' Again, she had to speak around a lump in her throat, and she gritted her teeth as she shook her head, furious and devastated. 'I'm so sorry this was done to your family.'

Avulstein called out then, holding two keys and hurrying back in their direction, and she continued in a whisper.

' _So_ sorry. We're going to do all we can to make things right for you.'

'Sorry I took so long! Damn chest was finnicky.'

She moved aside then for Avulstein to fit an old iron key into the door. In another moment it was swinging open, with a shriek from its rusty hinges.

The Khajiit stared at the open cell door with a range of emotions flickering over their faces – predominantly hope and disbelief. Those faces had Merrin biting the inside of her cheek, trying to ward off tears; both of them stepped aside, so there was nothing between the family and freedom.

'There's food and water in a mess hall not too far back from here,' she managed after a moment. 'The way is clear, and you can't miss it. You could load up some sacks, and have provisions for the road. And robes—there's plenty of warm clothing in the keep, to protect you from the cold.' Her hands fluttered at her sides as she spoke, and she felt miserable and restless. It was probably all she could do for them, and it didn't feel like enough.

Then Avulstein surprised her again.

'Aye.' He nodded as he put a hand on her shoulder, and stared at the two adults. 'And you can travel with us, if you'd like. We still need to find my brother, but after that, we're leaving. If you want, you can get your supplies and meet us at this back door, here. There's safety in numbers. We could lead you away from this place.'

Merrin looked up at him quickly, touched and astounded; when he pretended he couldn't feel her stare, she looked back at the Khajiit and nodded furiously in agreement.

'Of course! You could travel with us, if you'd like.'

'Your kindness moves the Khajiit, stranger.' The man bowed his head again, long ears twitching, and clasped his hands together at the waist. 'We hardly know how to answer, such is our shock. And we thank you for pointing us toward food and water, for hunger has been our constant companion here. But...' He paused, raised his head to look at both of them with eyes of deep amber.

'We will take to the road on our own, if such does not offend you. The journey to friends will be short from here—we can make it, unaided. And...truly, our suffering has been long. Khajiit wishes to be alone with his family, and at rest.'

He really _did_ seem to be afraid of offending them, and it broke Merrin's heart all over again.

'Of course,' she rushed to reassure him. 'If you'd rather travel alone, then by all means. We'd wish you a safe trip, and all the luck in the world. And if you head through the mountain pass, just be careful. It's rough country once you hit the plains.'

The man nodded, looking relieved, and unclasped his hands. 'Again, Khajiit thanks you. We would do best to move quickly, then...we will take our leave now.' And he turned away from them, kneeling beside his wife and son.

'Wait.'

It was the woman, Zita, who had spoken. She was sitting ram-rod straight now, looking at her husband in an urgent, beseeching way, clutching her sleeping son's shoulders tightly.

In the shadows, Merrin could see that she was beautiful, even underfed and unwashed. Pale grey fur striped through with white complimented a fine-boned face and prominent cheekbones, even as it contrasted a head of long, dark hair in hundreds of tiny braids. Pale tufted ears full of delicate silver hoops were currently flattened in frustration, and the hands that gripped her son's shoulders were tapered and elegant. A long striped tail swished across the stone in agitation, and when she suddenly turned her face to meet her gaze, Merrin found herself pinned by intense eyes of agate green, lined beautifully in white.

'There may yet be _one_ more thing you could do for us, warriors.' There was a tremor in the woman's voice, and when she looked again to her husband, there was desperation in her eyes. She tilted her head in their direction, and spoke to him urgently. Pleadingly.

'Tell them, Tomar. Tell them.'

'Hush, wife. Enough that they open the door to our cage – we can ask no more of them.' The husband, Tomar, shook his head. But his words were spoken gently, and even with his voice so parched, Merrin could hear the sadness in it. He placed one large, tawny hand on his wife's thin shoulder, and squeezed it as she blanched.

'We will find a solution, somehow. Trust...the gods have reminded us today that they are kind.'

'Tell us what?' Merrin insisted. 'What's the matter? If we can help, then we _want_ to. Please.'

Tomar hung his head, and Zita looked up to Merrin again. Tears were swimming in her eyes.

'Our son is sick!' The woman wailed the words, and clutched the boy in her arms more tightly.

'Sick? Sick how?'

'It is the damp cold of this place, the hunger. Some time ago he grew listless, and quiet. Now he barely ever wakes, and when he does, he speaks gibberish and does not know us!'

The tears fell, landing on the face of her son who looked very like her, and her shoulders shook as she cried.

'We have done all we could think of to help him, but his sickness only grows! We even b-begged the guards for help, but they only laughed...we f-fear he will die soon, if nothing is done!'

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Zita's weeping. Then Merrin could've sworn she heard Avulstein mutter something under his breath—and then he stepped forward, into the cell, brow furrowed.

'I think I know what's wrong with your son.' He approached them slowly, both hands in the air, and stopped with plenty of space still between them. 'Would you mind if I looked him over?'

For one solid beat, Tomar eyed him carefully, looking old and tired and guarded. And then he nodded, once.

'Any hope or help is welcome.'

Avulstein dropped to his knees beside Zita and the boy, and from where she stood holding the bars, Merrin could see him touch the boy's face, and then lower his head to his chest. Then he lifted an eyelid to see the eye beneath. After that, he nodded to himself, and then lifted his head to regard the couple.

'It's like I thought. I've seen this before, in men who spent time in prison camps but managed to escape and come home. Your son has a bad case of Wit's Bane.'

'Wit's Bane?' Zita's pale pink nose wrinkled, her brow furrowed. 'But how? We were told such only came from the wraiths of ice that hunt the far north...we've encountered none, and certainly none in _this_ place!'

'Did you eat any rotten meat, while you were here?' Avulstein asked them quietly.

Tomar gave a frustrated hiss from beside them, and nodded. 'Khajiit thank our captors for that. What little meat ever came to us was already crawling with maggots.'

'And your son ate it?'

'He was _hungry_ ,' Zita cried. 'We all were! What choice did we have, but to eat or die?'

'None,' Avulstein murmured, looking sympathetic. 'You had none. You and your husband are lucky the same didn't happen to _you_ as your son. All of the game this far north come into contact with ice wraiths at some point. Some get bitten, and the disease moves to the animal. When it dies, and ripens, the disease festers. _That's_ how it came to your son.'

Zita clutched her unconscious son closer to her chest, trembling all over as she looked down at his pale face, and gave another quiet sob. Tomar moved to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, as he too looked down at his boy and laid a shaking hand on his forehead.

'Can he be cured?' Zita whispered.

'Yes. He can be.'

Avulstein's answer had both Khajiit _and_ Merrin snapping their heads up to stare at him. And then he surprised Merrin for a _third_ time.

'He's still alive, so it isn't too late. Here's what you need to do – take your son out of this cell, and do as we suggested. Dress him warmly, and yourselves. Take all of the food and water you can find. Then leave the keep. Head east down the beach when you leave through the front gate, and walk up to the mountains beside us. You'll see a pass, in the rocks. At the mouth of that pass will be two horses, tethered. A chestnut, and a grey dapple.'

 _Avulstein,_ she wondered, mystified, _what are you...?_

'It's the dapple you want,' Avulstein continued. 'He's friendly – won't give you any trouble. Go into his left saddlebag, and you'll find a canvas sack. Open _that_ sack, and you'll find bottles with potions in them.'

Merrin's heart gave a squeeze as she realized what he was doing, and then her whole chest went warm. She stared at the back of his shaggy grey head and smiled as her eyes pricked with unshed tears.

'There are two in there that you'll need – a clear glass bottle of dark brown liquid, and a smaller bottle of _green_ glass. Take them both. Lay your son down, tip his head back, and feed him the potions. Do the brown one first, that'll cure the Wit's Bane. When he starts stirring, give him the other. It will give him the energy he needs to wake up and make the journey with you. He'll be himself again in no time.'

In front of him, Zita reached out and took one of his huge hands into her own, and stared at him with wide eyes full of tears.

'Khajiit have nothing...no way to repay your kindness,' she choked. 'How can we thank you enough?'

'I don't need any thanks at all. Seeing the three of you leave this place is enough.'

His voice was gruff and bashful, so like his father's to Merrin's ears, and he shook his head. He gave Zita's hand a warm squeeze, and then he rose to his feet.

'I'm sorry, but I can't stay here any longer. We need to find my brother yet, and I have the feeling he's going to need our help.'

'Of course.' Tomar sprang back to his feet, and took Avulstein's hand in both of his own. The Khajiit looked at the Nord, and similarly to his wife, his amber eyes were misty.

'Khajiit will keep you no longer from your task. But we thank you. If there were more Men here such as yourself, the vast expanse of Skyrim would not feel quite so cold.'

'Th...thank you,' Avulstein stammered. 'May the Gods keep you on your journey.'

'And you, on yours.' Tomar released his hand, and then turned to look at Merrin, giving her a smile that transformed his face.

'Your kindness will never be forgotten, friends. Tomar somehow doubts his sentiment will bear fruit, but...may your road lead you both to warm sands.'

'And may your food always be sweet,' Zita pitched in with a nod. 'Come, Tomar. We have much to do, and little time.'

They all went to work, then. Tomar collected his son into his arms, and husband and wife hurried from the cell and towards the library, to the mess hall beyond. When Avulstein scooped her back into his arms, she could see that he was blushing and his eyes were moist, and they glanced at each other in mutual understanding as he carried her from the room. No words were needed just then—she had a feeling they might talk about it later.

* * *

They ended up finding Thorald in the very _worst_ part of the keep.

Trying the door to the _left_ of the platform led them down a set of stairs, and into what could only be described as a den of torture. They'd both gasped and sworn as they hit the bottom step, and any lingering warm thoughts about what they'd just done went flying from their heads.

Directly in front of them was a stretching rack, stained with what could only be blood. Beside it there was a wooden table, covered in the type of old iron tools that the ancient Nords had used on dead bodies – _also_ spattered with blood. All in all, spilled blood seemed to be an element _throughout_ the dungeon: splattered on the stone floor and walls, dried to some chains anchored in the floor...there was even some staining the rope of a noose, hanging from the ceiling. Another alchemy table sat against the far wall, and even Merrin was able to recognize the cones of purple deathbell heaped on its surface – _poison_.

A pale-faced Avulstein took them one step forward into the grisly room. And then they were startled by a sudden voice, calling from around a corner out of sight. It was heavily accented, and sounded belligerent and scared at the same time.

'H-hello? Who's there?! _Answer me!_ '

Avulstein's whole body jerked at the sound, and with Merrin still in his arms he _bolted_ across the room and around the corner.

They came face to face with a badly beaten Nord, hanging by the wrists from a set of shackles bolted into the wall. He was absolutely filthy, and naked except for a ragged pair of baggy trousers. His bare arms and torso were _covered_ in wounds, ranging from fresh to nearly healed, and bruises bloomed across _most_ of his skin. The face that looked up to them was so badly swollen that Merrin couldn't tell what he really _looked_ like.

But the second that Avulstein saw the man, he cried out, and she felt it as his knees nearly buckled beneath them.

' _Thorald_!' Setting Merrin down beside him, he took another step forward. 'Thorald, it's me!'

The man looked absolutely shocked. And then, slowly, a badly busted lip quivered, and over eyes almost swollen shut, Thorald's brow furrowed.

'Avulstein? _Brother_...what in the _world_ – '

'I'm here. I _knew_ I would find you.' Avulstein dropped to his knees in front of his brother, and grabbed him carefully by the shoulders, trying to make direct eye contact. His voice was shaking badly as he spoke.

'I'm here to take you away from all of this.'

'By the Nine...am I dreaming?'

'It's no dream, brother. We're getting you out of here.'

'Not a dream...' Suddenly, Thorald blanched. 'But the guards—'

'Are all dead,' Avulstein cut in firmly. 'They won't be hurting _anyone_ again, I can promise you that.'

'Dead...all dead? I can hardly believe it.' Thorald seemed to still be in shock.

'Believe it. I swear to you. Now, first things first – we need to get you out of these shackles. Do you know where the key is kept?'

'The key...' At that point, Thorald seemed to shake himself, and when he spoke again he looked and sounded more alert.

'Yes. The torture-master keeps the key in the pages of that book, on his alchemy table. Avulstein,' he called after his brother as he rushed over to the table. 'How did you _do_ it? How did you fight your way through all those Thalmor? Come to think of it, how did you know where I _was_?'

'I have this woman to thank for all that.' Avulstein hurried back, holding a tiny skeleton key, and with the same hand, he gestured to her. 'Her name is Merrin, and she's a new Companion at Jorrvaskr. When she heard what'd happened to you, she offered up her help. But we'll get to that soon enough.'

He dropped back onto his knees in front of his brother and then used the key on the shackles; as soon as they opened, Thorald collapsed with a moan, and Avulstein had to catch his weight.

'Alright, easy. Come on, down you go.' He eased his brother onto the dirty flagstone, and kept a hand under his head for support.

'You're pretty banged up. A lot of these wounds need attention, and Merrin has healing magic. She's going to use it to help you.' At this point he looked from Thorald to her, and held out his other hand to support her as she stepped up and knelt to the ground beside them.

It was a good thing she'd conserved all her magicka – Thorald needed it. It seemed as if no matter where she laid her hands, the flesh beneath them needed her attention. Infection had settled in many of his wounds, as well as the wrists rubbed raw and bloody by the shackles. Some of the darkest bruises spoke to internal bleeding, and Thorald gasped frequently as her magic righted whatever had been damaged. Even if they hadn't been sitting in a torture chamber, it would've been clear that he'd been tortured – the man was _missing_ whole fingernails. When she ran her hands down both of his legs, his left knee-cap popped _back_ into place with a sickening little crunch, and tears started leaking from his swollen eyes.

Too soon, she felt her magicka starting to flag, and she turned her head to Avulstein.

'I'm starting to drain. I need you to look around, and see if you can find any magicka potions...most of the time they'll smell like lavender.'

He jumped up to do as she'd asked; he ended up rummaging in a chest under the alchemy table, and when he came back to her side, he offered her two small glass bottles. Merrin belted them back, one after the other, and grimaced at the taste of ozone on her tongue as her stores of magicka tingled and surged.

'Better?'

'Better.'

She worked some more on the legs, making sure they'd support him, filling the room with the golden light of her casting, and then returned to the spots that'd been the worst.

The last thing she concentrated on was his face. As the swelling went down and the bruising cleared away, a man emerged that she could easily tie to Avulstein; where before the only clue had been a thick head of grey hair, now there were clear similarities in the mouth, the jaw, the set and color of the eyes. She saw Eorlund, but she also saw Fralia – the younger Gray-Mane son had a subtle softness, an openness to his countenance that reminded her more of mother than father. Combined with his much-shorter beard, it made him look somehow...vulnerable. Innocent.

The centre of her chest was starting to burn, and what she'd gained from the potions was all but burnt up. Finally, she had to settle back with a groan onto her haunches, and look again to Avulstein.

'That's it,' she told him, sounding strained. 'That's all I can do, for now.'

'It's more than I'd hoped for.' Avulstein shook his head, and his eyes were warm as he helped her to her feet.

'I can second that.' From his place on the floor, Thorald spoke up as he stiffly pulled himself up to sitting, and rolled his neck with a series of popping cracks. 'This is easily the best I've felt in a ten-day.'

'Let me have a look at you.' Avulstein hauled Thorald up from the floor, gripping both shoulders as he held him at arm's length, and looked him up and down with a torn expression.

'You look _much_ better – human again,' he grumbled. 'But you look thin, brother.'

Thorald laughed weakly, and without humor. 'That'll happen, when you haven't eaten in a week.'

'Damn those fucking Thalmor.' Avulstein's voice was shaking again, and he yanked his younger brother into a hard embrace. 'Gods, I've been so worried.'

Thorald squeezed his brother back, and then rested his forehead against Avulstein's, bringing one hand around to hold him there.

'You can't know what it means, that you're here,' the younger Gray-Mane sighed. 'I thought I'd never see a friendly face again.'

'There was no way I wasn't coming for you. Know that.'

It was an intimate moment, charged with emotion – but Merrin didn't feel like an intruder this time. She'd worked hard, had given her sweat and blood to see it made possible, and she just hung quietly back as she watched the two brothers reunited.

It was Thorald who pulled away first, and turned to fix Merrin with dark blue eyes still lightly ringed in purple.

'Merrin, is it? You have my sincerest thanks. You and my brother saved my life. I don't think I had much longer to live, the way things were – the Thalmor were nearly done with me.'

'I want to hear _everything_ that happened from the night of the raid – you and I have a lot to talk about,' Avulstein interjected. 'But not until we're safely out of here. We need to move.' He turned to face Merrin, and looked concerned.

'Did you save enough magicka for your leg?'

Thorald's brow crumpled in confusion. 'Her leg?'

'She took an arrow while we were fighting,' Avulstein explained without looking away. Thorald's mouth opened and then shut again, and he fell quiet, looking disturbed.

Merrin shook her head. 'I doubt it. Are there any more magicka potions around?'

'I don't think so. They were all labelled, and the rest all said something else.'

She hissed in frustration, shrugged. 'Then here goes probably nothing.'

The end result was painful, but a bit better than nothing; by pushing herself to cast and digging deep, she managed to heal her arrow wound just enough that she could walk by herself without falling down. It was far from _properly_ healed and would need her attention later, but for now, it would do. Grimacing, she looked back to Avulstein.

'Alright, I'm better than I was. I don't need you to carry me anymore.'

Avulstein nodded, looking relieved. 'That makes things simpler. Let's take a quick look around, and see if there's anything else here we can use.'

As a prisoner, Thorald had come with next to nothing, and so he had nothing to try and retrieve. But from the same chest under the alchemy table they ended up finding two fair-sized stamina potions, enough for the three of them to share. They pulled the corks and drank them right then and there, and the energy it gave them made it easier to keep going, as sore and tired as they were. Moving in single file with Avulstein in the lead, the three of them left the torture chamber and back-tracked deeper into the keep.

They spoke very little as they made their way through, all of them focused and on high alert. The adrenaline was pumping again, and it made them jumpy.

When they made it to a sort of supply-room they'd passed full of extra gear, they stopped and headed inside. They hated to dress Thorald in Thalmor robes, and Thorald himself wasn't fond of the idea. But they had nothing else to give him, and he would never make the trip back in nothing but baggy trousers. So they dressed him in layers and layers of stolen black robes, warm boots and gloves, and promised him that as soon as they were able, they'd find him something else.

Unlike his brother, Thorald was a decent shot, and so they grabbed him a bow and a quiver with some arrows from one of the corpses going stiff where they'd fallen. And then they had no more reason to linger.

Avulstein tried to hustle Thorald through the cell block without seeing anything, but of course, that was impossible. When he looked beyond the bars of the cells and saw the bodies of his friends, he froze. He didn't curse or beat the bars, as his brother had; instead he called each man by name, and told them that he was sure he'd see them again, in Sovngarde. He apologized, quietly, for not being there to save them. And then he touched the cold iron bars lightly, briefly, before he straightened up and walked away. Avulstein looked rigid with worry, but said nothing. As they fell into line again, Merrin caught a glimpse of Thorald's face, and saw sorrow there – sorrow and resolve.

When Avulstein unlocked the door beyond the cells and they _finally_ tumbled out of the keep, Thorald fell to his knees in his robes and let out a yell as he tipped his face up to the sky—Merrin guessed that it was a mixture of grief, pain, and relief, but didn't think it her place to ask.

For herself, she took a _deep_ breath in, revelling in how the cold air bit at her nose and cheeks and made her lungs ache, reminding her she was alive. It was mid-afternoon, and still light, but the weather had worsened; a fine dusting of snow so light it looked like heavy mist had started falling from the sky. The sky itself had darkened to a steely color, and the clouds above them were pregnant with snow, promising that there was worse to come.

'We should keep moving.' Avulstein had come to his brother's side, hovering over him protectively, and when Thorald nodded, he pulled him back to his feet. 'We have the horses waiting.'

'You mean...?' Thorald looked at his brother, eyes glinting with some suppressed emotion, and when Avulstein nodded, a tiny bit of the sorrow lifted from his face.

'Then let's go. I'm ready to leave this place behind me.'

They circled the fort at a brisk pace before coming around to the side door they'd entered, and then walked along the black sand of the beach. This time Merrin heard the quiet crashing of the waves; when she looked further out, and saw how the fine mist of snow met and melded with the dark, foaming water, something tight in her chest loosened. And when she turned to look ahead and saw three figures in the distance, her heart skipped a beat.

Far down the beach with the snow muddling their outlines, at first she only recognized black robes, and feared that they were Thalmor. But then she noticed how much _shorter_ the figure in the middle was, compared to the ones on either side. And then, it clicked – two parents, and a child. A _walking_ child.

At the realization of who those three hazy black figures were, Merrin's heart soared in her chest.

Just then, as if they could feel her stare, the three figures stopped as she watched, and turned around. They saw her group as she saw theirs; for a second, they only stared. Then, in unison, all three of them raised their hands up, in silent thanks and farewell. Merrin raised her own hand in return, and saw Avulstein do the same from her peripheral – he had seen them too.

The five of them stayed that way for a moment, words spoken across the distance with a gesture. And then the family of Khajiit turned back around, and continued their way down the beach – free, and whole. With her heart hammering, Merrin turned to look at Avulstein.

'They – '

'Yeah.' She saw when he turned to face her that his eyes were twinkling, and he nodded.

They didn't need to say more. Staring at one another, they both broke into smiles of relief, of joy, and Avulstein stepped in closer to clap her on the back.

'Who are those people?' Thorald had noticed the family too, and he looked confused as he turned to his brother. 'You know them, somehow?'

'We met them today, on our way to you,' Avulstein answered. 'More prisoners of the Thalmor. A family – free now to make their way home.' Merrin could hear the happiness in his voice, and it widened her smile.

In another handful of minutes, they made it to the pass, and their horses. When Thorald saw Sparrow tethered there, his face lit up; some of the sorrow seemed to melt away, and the man ran his hands down his horse's neck as she whickered in his face. She stretched her neck out to lick his cheek, and Thorald hugged her and laughed. The sound of that laughter gave Avulstein some relief, and he sighed to himself as he re-tightened Sleipnr's saddle.

It was Merrin who looked at the dapple gelding and noticed what was different first. Beautiful and vibrant red, someone had taken a twig of snowberries, and braided it into his silver mane. The message it gave was as plain as if someone were standing there, and speaking it aloud: _thank you._

 _Zita,_ Merrin was willing to bet, and as she reached out a trembling hand to touch a red berry, her eyes pricked and stung. Combined with all of the fear, worry, doubt and adrenaline she'd felt over the last few days...the nights of bad sleep and feeling guilty... _this_ , this silent gesture was too much. The first tears fell as Avulstein came up beside her, exclaiming softly when he noticed the sprig of berries. And when he turned to face her and noticed said tears, he just nodded understanding, and gave her shoulder one brief squeeze. Then he swung himself into Sleipnr's saddle, got comfortable, and reached down a hand to pull her up behind him. As he looked to his brother who had already saddled, and called out to ask him if he was ready, Merrin found herself appreciating his discretion. She settled herself in behind him with a hard sniff, and scrubbed quickly at her eyes with the back of her hand.

They set off in single file up the narrow path, with the horses snorting and snow gathering in their manes. She and Avulstein were in the lead, and with no one to look at her face, Merrin stared straight ahead and allowed more silent tears to fall and then freeze in the bitter wind, as they left Northwatch Keep behind.

* * *

The mission was far from over; they'd managed to _rescue_ Thorald, but now they still had to lead him to safety.

None of them wanted to risk walking an Imperial prisoner through Dragon's Bridge – some of the soldiers stationed there had likely arrested Thorald _personally_. So they decided on a different route that Thorald and Avulstein knew. They came back through the inlet all the same when they left the mountain pass, but rather than veering toward Thorald's posting after, they cut west.

They rode the horses hard, signalling rather than talking as they traversed the choppy, tufted plains. All three were tense as they rode, eyes and ears straining for any trouble, fearing that returning Thalmor agents might discover what they'd done and decide to give chase. There was also the Forsworn to think of, with their path taking them into the fringes of the Reach – an ambush was the _last_ thing they needed, and both Merrin _and_ Thorald had their bows strung and ready, laid across their laps.

But as they pushed on, the only enemies they met with were a bunch of bandits in a crumbling old Barrow, who did little more than yell insults and take potshots at them as they cantered past. In seconds, the hillside ruin was behind them, and so was what little threat there'd been. Still, they remained alert.

Merrin had never traveled to the Reach before, and she found her eyes pulled in by the sweeping vistas around them as they rode through. The grasses here were spiky and rippled in the wind, and the farther they pressed, the more the plain grew dotted with squat, twisting trees, heavy with needles and juniper berries. At one point, far in the distance, she could see what Avulstein pointed out with a yell as an Orchish stronghold, and she stared until the stronghold faded from view.

Around the time they steered the horses south, they started losing daylight. And then the weather started getting steadily worse: the snow had stopped when they left the mountains behind, but the clouds above had grown darker and angrier, and now they could see thin, forking streaks of lightning snaking through the clouds, and hear the corresponding growl of thunder.

It would be dangerous _enough_ just to try and traverse this part of the province after dark, fraught as it was with cats and bears and sudden drops – an incoming storm was too much in the mix. In another hour, they were looking for a place to hole up for the night, and glancing nervously up at the sky.

Eventually, they came across a cave that seemed to be empty, with a wide open mouth about twenty paces deep, tall enough for a horse to stand in. And not a minute too soon; they'd _just_ been able to walk the horses inside and scurry to cut some dead tree limbs for firewood when the sky opened up with a clap of thunder, into a torrential downpour.

They ran with a shout for cover, bringing their wood in before it could get wet, and as they tossed it to the ground and got to work making camp, Merrin gave a sigh of relief. The rain was a blessing, in more ways than one; the heavy downfall made it less likely that anyone would come looking for them tonight, and after their long, hard ride, the horses could drink the rain as it dripped steadily down from the mouth of the cave. Avulstein was busy removing their saddles, and as soon as they were free of them, they went and did just that, knickering in contentment.

In another few minutes, Merrin had a good fire going in the centre of their camp, and Avulstein had rolled out the bedding for them. Thorald had tried to help him, arguing that he could still be of use, but Avulstein was having none of it. He'd deposited Thorald onto his bedroll, insisting that _he_ needed the comfort more and that for himself, his cloak on the ground would do. And then he'd turned to rifle through his pack.

'Now, you said you haven't eaten in week. Was that serious?'

Thorald grunted. 'Unfortunately.'

'Then most of this food is for you.' Avulstein came away from his bag holding a part-loaf of bread, the remaining salted elk, and one _very_ battered sweet roll, wrapped twice in linen.

'I saved this for you, especially.'

When Thorald reached out and took the sweetroll, he looked like he was going to cry. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled, and his eyes actually rolled back into his head.

' _Gods_...you have no _idea_ how long it's been since I've tasted one of ma's sweetrolls. _Thank_ you, brother.'

Avulstein looked guilty as he watched his brother tear into the roll, and he turned his face away, toward the fire. 'I'm pretty sure I have _some_ idea. I wanted to bring you a...piece of home.'

All of them were starving, after everything they'd been through; Merrin pulled off her sweaty helmet at last and hurried to add the rest of her hard-tack to their pile, and they tucked in ravenously with little talk as they sat around the fire. At some point, Thorald rose and ignored his brother's protests, to go and feed the horses their last two apples and stroke Sparrow's mane as he whispered in her ear.

Going a week without food did pretty bad things to the stomach, and it wasn't long before Thorald was pushing food away, shaking his head and announcing that if he ate any more, he'd throw it up. Avulstein frowned with worry and disapproval, but didn't push it; between him and Merrin, none of the leftovers went to waste. They saved just enough hard-tack to break their fasts in the morning.

Night had truly fallen outside, and Merrin pushed up from the ground as soon as she'd finished eating. She jerked her head towards the brothers as they stared at her questioningly.

'The two of you have a lot to discuss, I'm sure. I'll take first watch, and give you some privacy. You can talk, and rest.'

They looked a little baffled, Avulstein especially, but after a moment they both thanked her, and agreed. She just nodded in reply, and took her pack with her to lean against as she sat down not far from the mouth of the cave. The brothers settled down onto their cloak and bedroll, and in another minute they _were_ talking. They didn't trouble to keep their voices down, and Merrin felt a prickle of embarrassment as she realized that maybe they _hadn't_ expected her to make herself scarce while they did their catching up. Still, the storm outside was loud enough that she only caught snatches of words behind her, instead of full sentences; 'missed you so much' and 'thought it was over'. 'Does da know that—', and 'what happened? How did – ?'.

'What do we do next?'

With a quiet sigh, Merrin tucked her fly-away strands behind her ears and then wrapped her arms around her legs, tucking her knees beneath her chin as she stared ahead. It was gloomy outside, nearly pitch black with the stormclouds blocking the moons, and the sound of thunder and heavy rain made a pulsing kind of rhythm that seemed to match her heartbeat. The light of the fire behind her cast a faint orange glow into the night, cleft in two by the dark of her shadow. It wasn't much to see by, but it was all she had.

As she sat there listening to the rain, she thought about the people she'd left behind in Jorrvaskr – people she was actually missing. Foolishly, girlishly, she let herself wonder whether any of them were thinking of _her_ , while she was sitting and thinking of them.

When a huge fork of lightning chose _that_ second to come crashing down into the distant plains with a sizzling _crack_ , lighting up the entire sky with eerie blue and making the glow of her fire seem like nothing, she chose to take it as a sign. Foolish, or no. The two brothers both exclaimed behind her, loud enough for her to hear, before being drowned out by a huge _boom_ of thunder.

She realized with a start that it was the answer she wanted.

* * *

 **Thank you very much for reading! Did you enjoy this chapter? Leave me a review and let me know!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I want to thank you all for being patient – I know you've been waiting awhile! This chapter was exceptionally challenging for me to write, but the end result is something I feel good about. I also want to give a HUGE thank-you to all of the wonderful people who left me reviews, or who came to my Twitter page to talk – you guys are great! I appreciate you so much!**

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 **Happy reading!**

* * *

Rest had been fitful and shallow that night, and all three of them were sore when they rose at dawn. But if they'd been followed, they hadn't been found. On top of that, the sleep she'd managed had been enough for Merrin's magicka to replenish, and she'd finally been able to unbind her leg and heal her arrow wound properly.

The storm had broken while she'd slept, and by the time they were ready to leave the cave, the sky was promising easy weather. But the rain had left its mark; the ground was soggy beneath their horses' hooves as they cut south, and the several rivers they'd needed to ford were all swollen and surging with the recent downpour.

They'd been much closer to their goal than she'd realized, when they'd stopped the night before; it was only mid-morning when Avulstein looked back at her, and told her they were nearly there.

'But how? None of this looks familiar.'

He'd chuckled, and gone back to looking ahead.

'That's because we're taking the _back_ way.'

The back...? It had taken Merrin several seconds, and then she'd realized it: the snaking rivers they'd been crossing were the very ones she'd gazed out on, two days before. As that fact sank in, she'd peered over Avulstein's shoulder and looked out with new eyes at the massive rockface they were approaching. It was impossibly craggy and steep, and even _less_ inviting than the path they'd climbed the _first_ time. She hadn't been able to see any path at all in the foreboding jumble of rock, and while she'd kept her mouth shut, she'd worried that Avulstein had lost his mind.

But he hadn't. When they'd been so close to the towering rockface that she could all but reach out and touch it, he'd suddenly led their horse around a grassy boulder that concealed the opening of a curving, narrow pathway, that disappeared from view behind a jagged shelf of rock.

It was so hidden, so out of the way that she was _sure_ only family could know it was there. And it was so _steep_ that within a minute of starting the climb, she'd abandoned dignity and shoved down embarrassment, throwing her arms around Avulstein's waist, clinging tightly even as he laughed at her.

The horses had made the climb as cheerfully as ever, despite her fears that they would all plummet to their deaths, and after what had felt like an eternity to Merrin, the path started widening and opening up. The rockface hiding them from the valley below had fallen away, and then suddenly a wooden platform loomed above them, to their right. It had seemed so strange and out of place to her that it took a moment to recognize it was a sort of porch, or balcony. When the horses had given their last push and made it officially _off_ of the path, it made more sense; a platform for sure, with a bench for sitting and taking in the view, and several empty mead bottles laying beside it. Fifty paces ahead was the _back_ of Haldr's cabin, with several different saws hanging from nails in the logs above an _enormous_ old washtub.

Avulstein had called at the top of his lungs for Haldr as they'd approached the cabin; after a moment, there'd been a call back.

Haldr had made preparations for their return. The three of them were hustled into the cabin while he all but shouted praise, telling them that he _knew_ they could do it; he'd embraced all three of them, even Merrin, thumping her so hard on the back that it hurt. And then he'd grabbed Thorald and looked him over critically, murmuring how glad he was to see him alive, before embracing him again.

The bed had been all turned down and made ready, and Thorald was ushered into it by a cousin deaf to protest. As soon as Thorald had been comfortably propped up, he'd been stripped of his Thalmor robes _and_ his filthy trousers (with Merrin turning away to face a wall) and given a clean pair of breeches instead. After the job Merrin had done, he'd had no more open wounds – but he _did_ have scabs, and Haldr had gone to work on his cousin's bare chest and arms, dabbing a thick green poultice over the worst of them and wrapping his torso with long strips of boiled linen. While he'd worked, he'd asked if they figured they'd been followed; they assured him they hadn't been.

As soon as Haldr was done with _that_ , he'd turned to the kitchen table where the other two were seated, and grabbed a trio of bowls. A cauldron of something that smelled delicious was boiling away in the hearth, and soon each had been plied with a generous bowlful; hearty venison and potato stew, with thick hunks of rich meat and a healthy layer of melted fat glistening on the surface. This had been paired with a loaf of dark bread, and of course, Haldr's home-brewed mead.

While they'd eaten, they'd talked.

Thorald had already told his brother of the torture he'd endured, laying in the cave the night before. Merrin had overheard most of it, so she was also in the know. Safe now in the cabin, though, the men spared their cousin the grisliest details, and it was probably for the best – even as Thorald gave a quick summary, Avulstein gripped his spoon so hard he bent it, and he stared stonily down at the tabletop. His brother's words now only hinted at the horrors he'd endured, but she was confident that as he said them, Avulstein was sitting there and hearing what he'd been told the night before. And she knew he was wracked with guilt.

Haldr had still whistled and cursed when Thorald was finished, and had given his cousin's shoulder a sympathetic shake.

'It's a damn lucky thing they got you out when they did. I'm glad the sons of bitches all paid.' Then his brow furrowed, and he looked from one brother to the next, confused.

'But what is it they wanted from you and the others?'

'Same thing as always. Information.' Thorald looked dogged and tired, and he took a long drink of the mead in his hand. Then he straightened up in the bed.

'My squadron had been working pretty closely with Stormcloak himself, in the months before we were taken. He wanted us for our position, how close we were to Solitude. We'd been trying to work out a way to get the orders Tullius was giving his men into _our_ hands, straight from the source. We'd considered some sort of intercept at the Oculatus posting in Dragon's Bridge, but that wasn't direct or reliable enough. Instead we came up with the plan for a spy – a double agent.'

'What do you mean?' Haldr had filled himself a bowl of stew and had been about to take his first bite, but now the spoon hovered part-way to his mouth as he stared at Thorald in shock. 'You don't mean to say that _you_ were—'

'No.' Thorald cut his cousin off, shook his head. 'Not me. I'm too well-known in Whiterun. I have too many Imperial enemies. If _I'd_ tried to tap into Solitude, Id've been made in no time. No, it was meant to be one of my squadron. Someone relatively unknown. He would be chosen for the mission, and then he would've headed to Solitude in plainclothes and joined the Legion. The idea was that this man would work his way through the ranks as quickly as possible, to the point where he was trusted by Tullius and his lackeys. And then as soon as he was _given_ information, he'd start feeding it back to _us_.'

Avulstein looked unsurprised by this; obviously, he'd been told the night before. But _Merrin_ hadn't overheard this part of their lengthy discussion, and she looked at the younger Stormcloak with a mix of wariness and respect.

'That was a bold plan,' she murmured. 'High risk. But it would've paid off in spades. Did it ever pan out?'

'I have no way of knowing,' Thorald answered with a scowl. 'We were still hashing out the details with Ulfric and my captain, Istar, when me and a group of my friends were taken. I've been a prisoner to _someone_ or other ever since, and that was back in late spring. I have no idea how my posting fares, or what Ulfric does now. I assume we were targeted because someone recognized Ulfric, moving back and forth through the area to meet with us.'

In the silence, she considered announcing to the room the truth of what _had_ happened to Ulfric; how they'd been captured together near Darkwater Crossing months later, and nearly executed at Helgen before he'd made his escape in the havoc of the dragon attack. But after some thought, she let the moment pass and kept her mouth shut; none of what'd happened was well known yet – rumor hadn't spread very far in a few weeks, and what had was full of inaccuracy. And besides – hadn't she wanted to keep her involvement a secret? It didn't seem like the smartest move to reveal it _again,_ now.

She wasn't the _only_ one keeping quiet. In the wake of Thorald's words, Avulstein glanced at her for the barest of seconds before staring back into his half-eaten stew. With Thorald and Haldr still looking at her, she managed not to look confused – but only barely. Why was Avulstein letting his brother think that Ulfric's presence had gotten him captured, when they both _knew_ that wasn't true? Why was he keeping Olfrid's involvement a secret?

The moment passed when Haldr cut in with a nod. 'It was a great plan, to be sure. It's too bad that it's probably shot now, what with the Legion coming down on your posting.'

'I'm not so sure.' Thorald looked away from Merrin and glowered into the fire, shaking his head. 'When we got taken to the nearest Imp prison, the guards in charge there didn't mention the plan at all – it really seemed like they knew nothing about it. They didn't even bring up Ulfric being with us. I figured we'd be rotting there until our fellows won the war and freed us...the transfer came out of the blue. When we got handed off to the Thalmor, everything changed. _They_ knew that Ulfric had been with us, and they guessed we'd been cooking something up. But they didn't know what. They tried to break us...get us to talk.'

Barely perceptibly, his hands trembled, and he looked down into his lap as he clasped them together.

'But none of us did. Not any of my friends...and not me. So for all _I_ know, the plan could still be safe. Buried. And Ulfric still might use it, wherever he is.' Suddenly he looked back up, brows furrowed, and looked directly at his brother.

'But those Thalmor...they were crazy. I forgot to tell you last night, Avulstein, with everything that happened. But they really were. You want to know what the head torturer asked me about, just a day or two before you came? He was demanding I tell him what I knew about _dragons_.'

Beside Avulstein, Merrin stiffened, and nearly dropped her flagon. But nobody noticed, and Thorald carried on as if nothing had happened.

'Dragons! I thought he was fucking with me, and said as much.' He grimaced. ' _Big_ mistake. He kept asking me insane questions like, had I ever seen a dragon? Had any of my squadron been _looking_ for dragons? Had Ulfric ever brought them up, in my presence? As if I'm Ulfric's confidante or something,' he scoffed. 'When I reminded him that dragons were extinct, he—' he looked suddenly over to Merrin, who'd composed herself, and he colored up. Looked hastily back at his brother.

'Let's just say he didn't take kindly to it.'

Avulstein was staring hard now at his brother. 'Why the hell would they ask you something like _that_? It makes no sense at all.'

Thorald shrugged helplessly, and the room fell into a momentary silence before Haldr spoke up again.

'So they were crazy. That's hardly a shock, from the Thalmor, no? The bastards are dead. We can finally rest easy knowing that you're safe.'

'I suppose you're right.' But he looked troubled as he said it, and then he looked abruptly back to Avulstein.

'Brother...how _did_ you know where to find me? You told me you had Merrin to thank, but never really explained last night.'

Avulstein clearly hadn't spun a story yet to replace the truth; his mouth opened as he looked back at his brother, but no words came out. Seconds passed in silence, making Thorald wary...and then finally Avulstein slumped, defeated, and sighed. All eyes in the room were on him as he shook his head, and spoke.

'I...I didn't want to burden you with that.'

'What do you mean, burden me?' Thorald looked alarmed now, and his tone of voice sharpened. 'Avulstein, what are you talking about?'

'It wasn't some busybody reporting on Ulfric that got you arrested.' Avulstein hunched his shoulders, and grit his teeth.

'Our parents and I had a hunch back in Whiterun. Merrin went and found proof of that hunch for us. Thorald...somehow, Olfrid _Battle-Born_ knew exactly where you were posted, and he gave that up to Tullius himself. Personally.'

For a heartbeat, it was quiet in the cabin. Thorald sat up straight in Haldr's bed, looking as if he'd been struck. And then all of the sorrow came rushing back to his face, along with a good deal of anger.

'...It was Battle-Born? It...he...wait.' He took a deep breath, looked confused along with everything else.

'How in the Hells did that old bastard even _know_ where I was posted?'

In the silence that followed, Thorald plunked his drink aside with a shaking hand, and then his bowl of stew, and leaned forward to look directly at his brother. It was obvious that between the two of them, Thorald had the calmer nature; even as he stared at his brother with eyes full of anguish, he maintained control. He never even raised his voice.

'Avulstein? How did Olfrid _know_?'

'I don't know that.' Avulstein's tone was thick with shame, and his hands clenched into fists on the tabletop as he looked at Thorald. 'And I'm sorry for it. But I promise you, brother, I _will_ find out. Somehow.'

* * *

They told Thorald everything else they knew about Olfrid's involvement in his capture, while Haldr sat beside the window and lit a clay pipe to smoke, looking tense. Thorald took the news surprisingly well – when he heard of how Merrin had infiltrated the house, he even laughed.

And then he surprised them doubly, by setting the matter aside.

'For now, it doesn't matter.' He smiled sadly at his older brother. 'You knew as well as I did that Olfrid had this in him. He and his kin can't stand us and ours.' Then he shook his head, firmly.

'But the point for now is that he failed. He managed to get me locked up for awhile, yeah. And thanks to him, some of my closest friends are...' His words tapered off, and his sorrowful expression deepened as he struggled to take several long, even breaths. When he picked back up, his voice trembled a little.

'...Are gone, too soon. In a way they didn't deserve. But their killers will answer for that. And so will Olfrid, eventually. If not by my hand, then by the Divines'. I have to believe that,' he added, more fiercely.

'And as for me? I'm alive. If his intent was to kill me, he _failed_. And he's failed to break this family. You told me last night that ma, da, Olfina, they never gave up hope.' His blue eyes swept over his hands in his lap, and then landed back on Avulstein's face.

'There's nothing I can do for the brothers I've lost. But our family at home is waiting for word – word that I yet live. I can _give_ them that, and that's what I want to focus on, now.'

Avulstein sighed, and looked just then as if his regrets were choking him. He shook his head at his brother.

'You know it's not safe for you to come home. I'm sorry, but you need to stay here, with Haldr.'

Thorald _did_ know; Merrin had heard Avulstein break the news to his brother the night before, in the cave, and after some argument, she'd heard Thorald relent. Was he changing his mind after all of this?

But Thorald quickly shook his head.

'No, I know that. You were right. But that's not what I meant. There's another way I can talk to them. Not as good as face to face, but better than a handed-down message.'

'I understand,' Merrin cut in with a murmur. 'And it's a great idea. Haldr.' She twisted in her seat at the kitchen table, to look at the red-head sitting by the window.

'Do you have any more parchment?'

Haldr left his pipe on the sill and jumped up to rummage through his wooden chest again, and in another minute Thorald was set up with parchment, quill and ink. He even had a stiff piece of hide, to balance on his knees and support his paper. He quietly thanked his cousin and fell into writing, and the cabin went silent but for the scratching of the quill.

When he'd been at it for a little while, Avulstein broke the silence, speaking to his brother.

'This _is_ a good idea. We've all missed you for months, worried after you. It will be good to be able to bring them home _something_ of you.'

Thorald _mmmm_ ed his agreement, but just then a worry occurred to Merrin, and she cut in carefully.

'Um...Thorald. What if, when we come back to Whiterun without you, your mother thinks we're lying about you being alive? What if she thinks that _Avulstein_ wrote this letter, and we're just trying to trick her to spare her heartbreak? She _really_ wants to see you herself.'

Thorald surprised her by snorting and chuckling. 'It would be hard to mistake my hand-writing for Avulstein's. His is _horrible_.' But then he put down the quill, and lifted his head to look at her thoughtfully.

'But I see where you're coming from. Ma has always been an awful worrier. Hmm.' His brow furrowed in thought, and he frowned. For several seconds, they all sat in silence. And then he gave a start, and his face brightened.

'I know! I can use my poetry.'

Now it was Avulstein's turn to snort; he did his best to muffle it with his lifted flagon, but all present heard it just the same. Thorald looked up at his brother and raised both brows imperiously.

'Shut up, you,' he said calmly. ' _Some_ of us appreciate the finer arts.'

Both brothers smiled at one another then, and Thorald turned to Merrin, continuing.

'I wrote a poem some years back, and ma just loved it. Said it was one of the best she'd ever heard. I figure she was puffing me up, but she asked to keep it, and has it still. Knows it word for word. Avulstein _doesn't_ know it, and so, can't reproduce it. If I sign off the letter with the last line of her poem, then she'll _know_ I really wrote her this.'

Enthusiastically, Merrin nodded. 'That's smart. _Very_ smart. And lucky.'

Again, Thorald snorted. 'Well, I figure my luck had to turn around at _some_ point, yeah?'

At those words, the easy smile Avulstein had worn slid quickly off of his face, and he went back to staring at the wooden tabletop. Thorald didn't notice as he went back to writing, and once again, silence fell over the cabin.

This time, nobody broke it until Thorald was finished. He signed the piece of paper with a flourish, and then folded it into a tight square before he looked up at the three of them and offered it. Haldr was farthest away by the window, and Avulstein was staring into his empty flagon. So Merrin hurried over to him and took the letter, storing it in her pack with great care. Thorald watched her do it, and when she lifted her amber eyes to his blue ones, they were soft.

'What's the last line of your poem?' She asked him gently.

'We do well to suffer the cold winds of winter; for they bear aloft the next summer's seeds.'

His tone was just as gentle as hers, and she nodded at him sagely as she straightened up.

'That's very true. And very profound.'

Thorald nodded as she returned to the table, and then just kept his head bent.

'That's what she always loved about the poem. She'd tell me every now and then that it gave her hope.'

'We'll get the letter to her as soon as we can.' Avulstein cut in then, and his tone was reined in and purposeful. It drew them all back into the present moment, and what still needed to be done, and the mood shifted into a business-like one.

'Aye. You've an important trip ahead of you yet, cousin.' Haldr tapped out his pipe, and rose to collect the empty bowls and flagons from around the room, moving briskly, efficiently. 'Do you mean to take your leave straight away?'

'I don't intend to make my parents wait,' Avulstein replied. 'But we can't leave just yet. I don't know about you,' he said, turning to Merrin. 'But _I_ could damn-sure use a couple hours' sleep.'

She nodded at him quickly, gratefully. 'So could I. Caves don't really make for the best rest.'

'Don't I know it.' He grimaced, and turned to look at his brother, and then his cousin.

'Would you mind if we hunkered down on your floor for a bit?'

Haldr scoffed, looked put out.

'Now you're just asking me _stupid_ questions.' In one stride, he was next to Avulstein's rucksack. He slid the bedroll from where it was tied to the bottom and unrolled it with a flick of his wrists; then he dumped it unceremoniously onto his floor.

'Make yourselves comfortable, the three of you. Rest. I'll be outside if you need me, building up a fire. Got some things that need burning.'

Then he scooped the heavy armful of Thalmor robes up, and strode briskly through the cabin door.

* * *

Falling asleep had been easy. A mix of exhaustion and a long job finally done worked wonders; for close to three hours, they slept so soundly that no one so much as twitched.

It was just afternoon when Haldr finally came in from his yard work and woke them. And then, it had been time for goodbyes.

The four had taken turns embracing, the now fully-dressed Thorald thumping his brother on the back and squeezing him tight, and then giving Merrin much gentler treatment. Haldr had rushed to ply them both with more dark bread, and a pouch of salted fish, and his green eyes were twinkling as he looked the two of them over. He also produced a well-used steel helmet when Avulstein asked – for slipping back _into_ the city, when the time came.

Avulstein gripped his brother again, squeezing his upper arms with both hands, and leaned in close to him.

'I wish we could stay longer, but ma will start to think something went wrong.'

'No, no.' Thorald shook his head. 'I understand. You need to go.'

' _You_ need to take it easy. _Rest_. Heal up. Let Haldr do most of the work around here.'

Haldr rolled his eyes and snorted as he came to stand beside Thorald. 'Relax, cousin. He'll get the royal treatment while he stays with me.' Then he chuckled, and nudged Thorald gently in the ribs. 'Long as it takes for him to heal up, anyway.'

'And that's another thing,' Avulstein cut in, looking no more relaxed. 'Even _after_ you've healed up, stay here with Haldr. You've put in time enough for Ulfric – the whole family would rest easier if you quit the field, at least for a while.'

Thorald pursed his lips at the words, but after a pause, he nodded. 'I reckon you're right.'

Avulstein shook his head, stared hard at his brother.

' _Promise_ me. I don't want you running off. Promise you'll be here when I get back.'

The other three in the cabin all started at his words, and then Thorald was the first to speak.

'What do you mean, 'when you get back'?'

Merrin turned to look at Avulstein, questioning. His blue eyes swept over her face, and then Thorald's, and rested on his cousin.

'I've had some time to think about it,' he announced. 'And the way I see it, I'm in no better a position than Thorald is. We didn't kill _every_ Thalmor posted in Northwatch – some of them were away when we hit it. They're bound to come back, and when they make sense of what they find, they're bound to come looking for you. If I stay in Whiterun, they'll find _me_ instead. I'd be safest in the hills with you two.'

Thorald's face lit up at his older brother's words, and Haldr cracked a smile too as he nodded slowly.

'You're right. You will be. Well, just do what needs doing in the city, and then head back. I know I don't need to tell you you're welcome any time.' Then he looked over to Merrin and stared at her warmly. 'And that goes for you too, friend.'

'I appreciate that.' Merrin smiled back at him, and then turned to Avulstein.

'If you're on borrowed time, I don't want to waste any. We don't know how soon the Thalmor might come looking – we should go.'

Haldr clapped his cousin on the back once more. 'She's right.' And then he chuckled.

'This way is probably for the best, yeah? Ma would've wanted to skin you herself, if she found out you'd been around and hadn't come to call.'

Finally, Avulstein smiled, and gave a quiet chuckle as he shouldered his pack.

'That's a fact. Aunt Margot could make _any_ Thalmor seem tame.'

Lastly, Thorald came forward, and took Merrin's hand gently in both of his own. His look made his face seem especially soft, and he stared her directly in the eye.

'I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done. For my family, and for me. I'll never forget it, and I hope to see our paths cross again, someday. Thank you.' He raised her hand to his lips, and gave her centre-most knuckle a single soft kiss.

'You don't have to thank me,' Merrin answered, a touch embarrassed. She squeezed the hands that were holding hers, and then deftly drew hers away. 'It was the right thing to do.'

'That doesn't make it any less rare. Or remarkable.' He smiled, and then looked past her to his brother.

'Keep each other safe, on the road. If ma wants to know more than I've written, best to go easy on her. And hurry back soon. I've missed you, brother.'

'I will.' Avulstein nodded solemnly. 'I'll be back as soon as I can be.'

'Good. I promise I'll be here, whenever that is.'

Avulstein opened the door to the cabin with Merrin right behind him, and then looked back from the threshold. His cousin had come to stand beside his younger brother, and both raised their hands in farewell. Haldr called out to them last.

'Gods watch over you both.'

* * *

After leaving Haldr's cabin, they chose to avoid any more mountains altogether, by turning Sleipnr south.

And as time and miles passed them by, it seemed to really dawn on Avulstein that the worst was over, and that they'd triumphed; the cabin's outcrop was a smudge behind them when he suddenly burst out into joyful yelling, dropping Sleipnr's reins to pump both fists in the air and tipping his face up to the sky. He swiveled in the saddle to look at her behind him, and was grinning at her from ear to ear. She couldn't help but laugh and grin back, and when he spurred the horse faster beneath them and she grabbed him in response, she could feel him laughing with her.

The way was fairly easygoing, with nothing steeper than a foothill; Sleipnr showed no signs of tiring, so they kept up the speed as early afternoon aged into late. They slowed to a trot along a small stream just as the sun was setting, and then stopped to let the gelding take a well-earned drink. Avulstein was still in high spirits, and when he told her that he knew this area well and assured her that it was a straight shot to the village Rorikstead, they decided to press on and ride in the dark. The moons were only just starting to wane in their cycle, and the sky was awash with stars; they had no trouble seeing the plain beneath them as they thundered on.

It was near to midnight when the trio approached the promised village, surrounded by lush farmland, and nothing stirred as they trotted down the one and only road and stopped in front of one of the log buildings. It was too dark to read the sign hanging from the porch-roof, but Avulstein told her that the inn was called the Frostfruit. They tied Sleipnr to the post outside, and after they'd rubbed him down and made sure the trough was filled, they slipped him two heels of bread and headed up the stairs with their bags.

The door was locked at this late hour, and they had to wake the innkeeper with loud knocking. He opened the door blearily after a minute, holding a lit candle and looking unimpressed in a nightcap knocked askew. _Traveling, this time of night?_ He'd looked them suspiciously up and down, lingering on their many weapons. But finally he made up his mind, and threw the door wide to let them enter, grumbling that they'd have to wait a minute.

The innkeep went to wake a younger man – his son, from the resemblance – and the two of them set to readying the two a couple of rooms. Then they'd paid a price that she suspected was inflated for the trouble, and were left to their own devices, with the innkeep informing them there'd be no food until morning while he re-locked the front door and then hurried back to his quarters in the basement. In moments the inn was silent again, and they stood staring at one another in the flickering light of two candles they'd been handed. With nothing else to do, they said goodnight, and then each retreated into their room, closing their wooden doors behind them.

For the first time in days, they slept past the break of dawn – rest that was sorely needed. When Merrin finally rolled over in the single bed and opened her eyes, there was enough light seeping through the crack under her door that the tiny room she'd rented was only semi-dark. She used the dim light to get dressed, pulling on her clothing and then her armor, while she listened to the chatter of voices outside. She grabbed her pack last, and then opened the door to her room and stepped out into the tavern, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

It was much brighter out here, with sunshine streaming in through windows in the peaked roof. A fire-pit that had been cold and empty when they'd arrived was now crackling merrily away, orange flames snapping towards the ceiling and adding to the light in the room.

Two men sat at a wooden table not far from where she stood, munching loaves of bread and talking between themselves. They seemed like old friends, the way they leaned toward each other, and one of them smoked a long pipe in between eating and laughing. Both of them glanced her way when they noticed her, but neither paid her any mind.

She spotted Avulstein sitting at the bar, fully dressed and with his pack tucked between the legs of his barstool. His back was to her, and he hadn't noticed her yet. On the other side of the bar, the innkeeper stood wiping at the wood with a rag. Her standing there must've caught his eye, because the older man looked up suddenly and waved her over with the other hand.

Merrin sidled up to the bar and dropped her pack to the ground, plunking her helmet down onto the wood and then sliding onto the stool beside Avulstein. _Now_ he noticed her, and he tipped his head her way before he cracked a smile.

He was halfway through a bowl of heavy porridge topped with sticky honey-comb, and before she could say a word, he was gesturing for the watching innkeep to fix a bowl of the same for her.

'And milk to drink, if you have it,' she added quickly before the man could hurry away, and sighed when she saw him nod. Then she turned to look at Avulstein, exasperated.

He was staring back with one brow furrowed, and a crinkle in his nose. His grey hair was more dishevelled than usual, and he was looking rumpled.

'Milk? Whadda'you want milk for? You'd be better off with mead.'

'I drink _enough_ mead.' Then she shook her head.

'You shouldn't have let me sleep in so late.'

He shrugged. 'I reckoned you needed the rest. _I_ did. I haven't been awake much longer than you. And besides,' he added as he leaned toward her and gave her shoulder a bump with his own, 'I've got your back. I wasn't worried about any Thalmor this morning.'

He lowered his voice, not wanting to be overheard, and smiled at her in a jesting sort of way. 'Let them _try_ me, today. They'd be sorry.'

A second later the innkeeper was back, setting down what they'd requested in front of her with a _plunk_ , and Merrin gave up with a roll of brown eyes. She lifted the wooden spoon in the bowl, pleased with the drip of the honey, and shot Avulstein a smile of her own as she nudged him back, relenting.

'Yeah, yeah. Tough talk, from the man with breakfast in his beard.'

He looked down with a sudden huff, combing his fingers through his beard for spilled porridge. When he didn't find any, he looked up to meet her eyes, saw they were dancing, and gave a snort and a glower at her pious expression.

'Yeah. How about you just drink your milk?'

'Don't mind if I do.'

* * *

They took the time to feed Sleipnr some hay and sweet barley before they left, with Avulstein scratching lovingly at the spot between the dapple's ears, and then they saddled up. The innkeeper's son came out onto the porch with a broom in hand as they were leaving; for some reason Merrin didn't understand, his expression was _envious_ as he watched them go. She stared at the red-headed man until he slid from her view, but by the time she'd straightened back in the saddle, he was already drifting from her mind.

In the broad light of day, she could see the fields of waving yellow wheat stretching far on either side as they rode, rippling in the breeze like seas of gold. The year's final harvest of grain would happen soon, with autumn around the corner, and Rorikstead had clearly done well for itself.

It was a sleepy village all in all, hardly more than a hamlet; in practically no time, they'd left it behind.

The pace they kept was brisk, but not frantic – and while the wind rushing by made it too loud to talk, Avulstein pointed out from the saddle often and exclaimed, drawing her attention to anything that he deemed noteworthy. He pointed out a lonely hawk, riding a thermal in an upward spiral high above their heads, and then later a fox with a rusty red coat, darting from some bushes into its den.

The air between the two of them was clear, and light enough. But it also held a certain _anticipation_ ; it felt like there were things they should've been talking about, but weren't.

Still, she did nothing about it. There was time yet before they made it back to Whiterun, and Merrin felt confident that when Avulstein wanted to talk, he would. So she just relaxed in the saddle and joined in, pointing out to him the funneling swirl of butterflies to their left, and then a faraway sabre-cat sunning lazily on a rock.

Some time after noon had come and gone, the first hazy etchings of Whiterun shimmered into view on the horizon, far, far across the plains. Both of them pointed at the same time, and then laughed. And then Avulstein pulled on the reins, and slowed them to a walk. He twisted to face her for just a moment in the saddle, and she knew that it was time.

'So...we really did it. We really saved him.'

'Yeah.' Behind him, she nodded and sighed. 'Yeah, we did.'

'I can hardly believe it. Even now.'

'I told you on our way to Northwatch that we'd bring him back alive, didn't I?'

He snorted at that. 'I never fully shared your faith or confidence.'

'Because you feel responsible for what happened?'

She'd cut right to the chase. For a split second he stiffened, but then his shoulders slumped. It was his turn to sigh.

'Yeah, I do. I was afraid my brother was dead because of me. Since I read that letter in my parent's house, it was damn-near all I could think about. Getting him back was all that mattered...'

He fell silent, but Merrin just waited. Something told her there was more.

'... _All_ that mattered. I _would've_ gone alone, if you hadn't come with me. I would've died if it came to it, trying to take Thorald home. But it hurt too much to really let myself believe he could be alive. As much as it hurt to tell myself he was dead. So I shoved it all down, and just tried to focus on getting there.'

He'd slumped further as he'd spoken, and he sounded forlorn. She didn't feel like it would be unwelcome if she put a hand on his back, and so she put one there; patting him twice, three times, so he'd feel it through his armor. What would've been strange a few days ago felt natural now, and she watched as he took a deep breath and straightened up a little.

'I understand what you're saying. I do. But your brother lives. Your hope and faith would've paid off, if you'd had them.'

'But he went through hell, sure enough. I feel responsible for _that_ , too.'

Merrin pursed her lips, hummed partial assent.

'Yes, he did. But maybe you should give yourself a break, and focus on what went right this time.'

She knew it would be pointless right now to try and get him to see that he was innocent in this. It was something he'd have to come to on his own.

Avulstein gave another huge sigh, and shook his head. 'Maybe. I don't know.'

They rode in silence for a few seconds. Then he spoke again, plain and honest.

'You made it easier than it would've been. Easier to bear. You brought...moments where things could be simple, and I could think about something else. You made it so I could laugh. I'm...glad that you came.'

Merrin blinked as she stared at the back of his head, and swallowed, once. Twice. The compliment was unexpected, and so were the emotions that it stirred – a sort of longing, satisfied. It took her a moment to be able to answer.

'...Thank you, Avulstein. That really means a lot. So am I.'

He nodded. 'The whole thing went better with you there, then it would've gone if you weren't. I figure a _lot_ better.' Again, he twisted to look at her behind him, and his eyes were serious as he took her in. There was a sort of contentment in his expression, and it warmed her to see it there. They looked at each other for a beat, and then Avulstein turned back around, staring ahead as he continued.

'We set out to save one person, and we ended up saving _five_. That's a good feeling.'

'A _damn_ good feeling.' A question occurred to her then, and she asked it.

'You don't regret letting that young barkeep go, after seeing what the Thalmor did to Thorald?'

At first, he didn't answer. The city had gotten clearer in the distance as they drew closer, and now if she looked over his shoulder she could make out the farmsteads in their fields. After a minute, he shook his head again.

'No, I don't. He was barely better off than those Khajiit in the cage. No less trapped. He seemed like an okay kid. And...this war has taught me that not all of a people are the same. Not by a long shot.'

She waited for a while before she answered, her voice quiet. 'It was a really good thing, what you did for that family. Helping their son like that.'

He startled in the saddle at that; snorted, and waved one hand through the air.

'That? It was nothing. Just common decency.'

He reminded her _so_ of Eorlund, the way he said those words. It made her break into a smile he couldn't see.

'It made me proud of you.' She remembered the look on his face when the couple had thanked the two of them, the wetness in his eyes. 'And it was far from nothing.'

'...I suppose you're right.' He looked skyward in front of her, rubbed his free hand absently on his armored thigh.

'I feel like I haven't done enough _good_ , in my time as a soldier. But...I have this. This trip was something good.'

'And there's more to come,' she agreed with a nod. 'It'll be _very_ good to give the news to your family.'

'Yeah.' Avulstein nodded. 'My family...they've been amazing. Even when Thorald went missing, they never said a word to make me feel like they blamed me. And I don't think they do. But...still. Being able to tell them he's safe again is going to lift some of that weight, for me. Like...I've evened things out some.'

'That makes sense...do you think they'll support you going to live with Thorald and your cousin?'

He snorted. 'I'm not sure. But it's not like there's really a choice. Whiterun won't be safe for me, after this – for who knows how long. I need to keep distance between me and the Thalmor. And I need to keep an eye on Thorald.'

'Because you think he's restless.' It was a statement, not a question.

'I _know_ he's restless. But what he needs is _rest_ , period.'

'Would that be why you tried to keep the truth from him? About Olfrid?'

Again, he tensed – but again, it only took him a second or two to answer. A new trust had formed between them in the last couple days; tentative, but there.

'Pretty much.' He looked at her from the corner of one eye, looked away. 'I didn't want to risk him running back to Whiterun to challenge Battle-Born. He's _finally_ safe, and I'd do anything to keep him that way...even lie. I just wasn't sharp enough to come up with something believable,' he ended on a mutter.

'Well, he _promised_ to wait for you, before we left. That's something,' she reassured him.

'When you get back to him, are you going to try and convince him to give up soldiering?'

He answered slowly, with a nod.

'That's my plan. Way I see it, eleven years is enough of a man's life to give. I'll tell him that it's high time we lay down arms, and start looking for somewhere to start new lives. Lives that will mean something, when we're old men.'

'That sounds like a good plan to me.' Merrin paused then, a thought occurring to her.

'But what will you do if he _can't_ be persuaded? If he wants to go back to Ulfric, after all of this?'

There was a long pause.

'I...I don't know. I can't let my brother fight alone. Whatever that might mean.'

His voice had gone heavy and bleak with those words, and they pricked her with an answering dread. Both of them fell silent after that, their conversation extinguished like a candle blown out, and they were quiet as they forged ahead.

After some minutes, Avulstein reached fumblingly into his pack and pulled out the helmet he'd borrowed from Haldr, sliding it down into place on his head and hiding his face from view. They could see the first farms clearly now, and the great walls of stone that hemmed the city in. The sun was on its descent in the rich blue sky, and was nearly touching the tallest peak of Dragonsreach. They'd be able to make out guards on the walls, soon.

Still, neither of them spoke; the only sounds were the whispering breeze, and Sleipnr beneath them.

Merrin wondered if, like herself, he was thinking about their night in the Stormcloak camp – the words they'd exchanged. He'd made it clear in that tent that he wanted to be done with war...and she'd encouraged him.

And yet, just now, he'd sounded so resigned – so helpless. She stared hard at his armored back, and his last words weighed heavily in her gut, in the way of all things that were hard to swallow.

Eventually they passed between two farmer's fields and came trotting straight up to the Whiterun stables. They were lucky; both the stable-master and his son were inside their house, and so there were no questions asked as they drew up. Avulstein dismounted first, and looked around him to either side before he drew out the key to the stall door and unlocked it. Merrin guided Sleipnr inside, taking care not to bang her head on the lintel, and then she slid to the ground. Avulstein closed the door behind her, and was the one to finally break the silence.

'Alright, nearly in the clear. We just need to take care of him, and we can go.'

'Yeah.'

Merrin stripped Sleipnr of cloth bit and bridle, reins and headstall, as Avulstein pulled fresh hay down from where it stored in the rafters and spread it out with a nearby pitchfork. Then he went with a bucket to the nearby pump to get water for Sleipnr's trough. Merrin unbuckled the straps of the saddle, pulled them apart, and lifted the whole thing away, hanging it up on the stall's back wall. By the time Avulstein came back with a bucket full and sloshing, she'd slung his saddlebags over the half-door and was depositing the last piece of tack into the chest.

Avulstein pulled out a flatbrush, and with nothing more useful left to do, Merrin stood in front of Sleipnr and stroked his forehead, watching as he gave the horse a quick and firm brushing.

Sleipnr enjoyed this thoroughly, knickering loudly every once in a while and blowing warm air into Merrin's face, but she hardly even noticed. Her eyes were still on Avulstein, and the nasty feeling in her chest was getting harder and harder to ignore.

When Avulstein finally finished with the brushing, he straightened up and met her gaze. The helmet hid his face well, but in the shadows of the stall she could just barely make out his dark blue eyes, staring at her from the slits in the steel.

She took another two steps toward him, and from this short distance she caught a glimpse of the smudgy bruises around those eyes, that had been left by the Thalmor mage. And then suddenly the feeling in her chest was crawling up her throat and all at once she was talking – fiercely, in a rush.

'Don't do it. Don't go back to war.'

'W-what?' Clearly, she'd caught him off guard; his eyes widened as he looked at her.

'Please. You told me yourself, you're tired of fighting. You want a new life, where you can be someone else.'

She surprised the both of them by reaching out, grabbing Avulstein by his upper arms, and giving him a little shake.

'I know he's family, but you have to think of yourself! Don't let _anyone_ drag you back. I can't stand the thought of something happening to you on some battlefield, when you didn't even want to _be_ there.'

There was raw emotion in her voice, and Avulstein blinked once, twice, three times before he cautiously broke out of her grip and slowly shook his head.

'But Merrin...I...'

' _Please_.' She wasn't just seeing him as he was now, before her, but also the way he'd looked _that_ night – haunted and hopeless. It moved her to interfere in ways she normally wouldn't.

He was silent for one beat, two. Then he gave a big sigh behind the helmet, and looked at her with eyes that flashed many emotions – surprise, warmth, embarrassment, doubt, hope.

'I'll, ah...think on all of this.'

It was more than she had any right to expect; it would have to be enough. Taking a deep breath, Merrin shoved the insistent feelings down, and gave her head a shake that sent her messy braid sliding over her shoulder. And then she exhaled, and nodded.

'Right – alright. We're almost done, here. Let's get you back to Fralia.'

* * *

When Merrin finally walked up to the city gates, she was many things – almost none of them pleasant. Tired, aching, hungry and dirty; longing for a bath, and sporting a saddle bruise that she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. She was made irritable by all of these things, and her recent outburst at Avulstein had her feeling inexplicably anxious; after everything they'd just been through, her conflicting emotions felt ragged and frayed. And running beneath it all was a sneaky under-current – blooming relief, to be back in this city that was slowly starting to feel like home.

The guards posted at the gate had looked a bit suspiciously at Avulstein, faceless as he was in the helmet. But they recognized Merrin easily enough from all of her comings and goings; when she stated firmly that the two were returning from Companion's business, the doors were opened for them.

They found Fralia inside House Gray-Mane, facing the front door in an armchair by the fire, fast asleep. He turned to lock the door behind them, and she noticed that his hands were shaking.

Avulstein reached out to rouse his mother, and when she started awake with a gasp to see one son instead of two, her face crumpled. Frantically, she reached out to grab his hands, and her blue eyes welled with tears as she looked up at him.

'Avulstein...is Thorald...?'

'He's alive, ma.' His voice shook nearly as badly as his hands, but he smiled down at his mother. 'He's alive and well.'

Fralia let out a breathy _'oh!'_ and surged out of her chair at this news, throwing her arms around her son and squeezing as tight as she could. Avulstein returned the embrace, and for a second they just stayed that way. Then Fralia pulled back to stare at him, looking confused and anxious.

'Well then, where is he? Why isn't he here, with the two of you? And what happened to your _face?_ ' She looked over to Merrin for the first time now, and she could see the worry in the older woman's eyes, still shining with unshed tears.

So they sat her back down, and explained.

When Avulstein told her where and why they'd left Thorald, a few of those unshed tears went slipping down her wrinkled cheeks. It wasn't what she wanted to hear; her face was taut with disappointment and heartache. But ultimately, she nodded agreement.

'You did right,' Fralia croaked. 'I just wanted him back so badly. I never thought about the Thalmor. But you're right. If...if Thorald can't come home, he's best off with family. With people who love him.' She closed her eyes, and squeezed Avulstein's hand as a few more tears fell.

She had questions about the fortress, and what they'd encountered there. (Was it _very_ dangerous? How many were you up against? Was Thorald too badly off when you found him?) They were both careful with their answers, especially to that last question – skimming over harsh details, and leaving the worst parts out altogether. And both were quick to assure her that Thorald had been tended to at the _first_ real chance.

Afterwards, Fralia sighed. She still looked sad, and throughout the questioning, she'd seemed dissatisfied – chewing her lower lip and casting her hands about in a nervous flutter. She reached out to Avulstein in the chair beside hers and cupped his face in one slender hand, giving him an uncertain smile.

'I'm so glad to have you home, safe – it means the world to me. Don't think that I'm ungrateful, because you couldn't bring your brother home. I just...' She sighed again, gesturing helplessly with her free hand. 'I wish that I _had_ something of him. To make him feel closer to me.'

Merrin started at those words, suddenly remembering, and jumped to her feet.

'Actually, there _is_ something.'

She moved to where she'd left her rucksack on the floor and slid a hand into its jumbled contents, groping for Thorald's letter until she felt the folded up paper.

'A letter? He w-wrote us a letter?'

Fralia's lips trembled as Merrin pressed the letter into her cupped, waiting hands. She smoothed the many folds with shaking, eager fingers, and then her wet eyes flew over the lines on the page. Those eyes grew wider and wider as they made their way down, until they hit the last line, where they abruptly caught and held. In a breathless whisper, Fralia recited the last handful of words.

'... _for they bear aloft the next summer's seeds_...' Looking awestruck, Fralia looked from the letter to Avulstein, and then to Merrin, eyes shining with a mixture of tears and hope.

'Gods. It really _is_ him.' She pressed the letter to her chest with shaking hands – and then all at once, the woman crumpled. The sheer weight of all that fear and desperation came falling away, and so did the strength that had borne it. Free at long last of such a burden, she bent over double in the chair, and let loose the deluge that had been dammed up for months.

For a while, Merrin and Avulstein just let her cry. Their eyes met over Fralia's shuddering back, and understanding passed between the two of them. Then Avulstein brought comforting hands down onto his mother's shaking shoulders, and he started to murmur soothing words.

Eventually, the old woman pulled herself together, and straightened back up with a hiccoughing sigh.

'Alright. I'm...I'm alright.' She scrubbed furiously at red-rimmed eyes, gave a hard sniff, and rose to her feet, still clutching Thorald's letter in one hand. Then she looked up at both of them, and smiled.

'Come here.'

As she drew them to her and into one-armed hugs, Merrin could see a budding new...lightness, to Fralia. It was like being free of such heavy fear and sorrow had lifted actual _weight_ from her shoulders. It warmed her heart to see it, and when she looked to Avulstein, she could tell he felt the same...but there were shadows in his eyes, and after a moment he drew back from his mother, grimacing.

'Ma...I'm so sorry...but _I_ have to leave, too. The Thalmor will likely be coming to Whiterun, searching for Thorald.' He grabbed her shoulder, gave it a squeeze.

'It isn't safe here for me, anymore.'

For a moment, Fralia's shoulders slumped, and she looked like she was going to cry again. But then she took a deep breath and drew up straight, lifting her chin with resolve, and nodded. Her lips formed a thin, firm line, and her blue eyes met and held her sons.

'...I know it. You're right again.' A small pause. 'You'll be going back to Thorald and Haldr, then?'

He nodded, and she seemed satisfied with this answer. With a tug of his armor, she pulled him back into arm's reach, and hugged him again.

'As it should be. It hurts me not to have you near, but you'll be safe with them. Give my sister my love, and my nephew. And Thorald, of course,' she sighed. Then a sudden thought occurred to her, and she whipped her head back up to pin him with a stern mother's glare.

'But you are _not_ leaving this house until you've had time to say a proper goodbye to your pa and your sister! There was practically no talkin' them down, when they finished work for the day an' came home to find you gone!'

That last sentence reminded Merrin with a jolt of the people likely waiting for _her_ in this city, and she interrupted Avulstein's guilty rumblings to interject.

'Speaking of finding someone gone...Fralia, it's been an honor to help your family. And I can't tell you how glad I am that Thorald is safe. But the Companions are waiting for me to come back – I left...abruptly.' A tiny niggling of the earlier guilt came rising back up to the surface now, but Merrin did her best to ignore it.

'Of course.' Fralia nodded vigorously and reached for both her hands, taking them into her own.

'I don't want to keep you from your other duties. I just want to thank you, before you go.' The much older, shorter woman looked up at Merrin with a vibrant smile and shining eyes, and Merrin couldn't help but smile back.

'From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Merrin. For all you did to save my younger son's life, and guard my older one's. I can only guess what it must have cost you, but you offered it gladly. That's a mighty rare thing, in times like these.'

Like it always did, the heartfelt thank-yous made Merrin awkward, unsure of what to do with herself. She squeezed Fralia's hands and shook her head, trying not to look embarrassed.

'I just did what had to be done. And it's not like I did it alone – Avulstein had _my_ back, too.' He'd saved her _life_.

Fralia reached up then, and trailed one gentle finger along the scabbed-over slash across her cheek, her souvenir from a Thalmor mage. She let out a soft _hmmm_ , and then stared into Merrin's brown eyes knowingly.

'Everything has a cost. And none of this was _your_ cost to pay – yet you paid it without complaint, and then came all the way back to try and lie to me about how dangerous it was, and make out like you hardly did a thing.'

Merrin started guiltily at those words, said so matter-of-factly, and so did Avulstein beside her. He opened his mouth to protest, but Fralia quelled him with one sudden sharp glance. Then she looked wryly at Merrin.

'Don't try to deny it – my sons act like they're allergic to credit, just like the fool I married.'

Her tone was dry, but there was still no mistaking the warmth there. Her mouth was curled at the corners, in the faintest hint of a smile.

'I've had decades of experience. So I know it when I see it. But they never get away with it on my watch, and neither will you, young lady.'

Then Fralia pulled her into a sudden fierce embrace, squeezing with surprising strength.

'You have my eternal gratitude, for everything you did,' she whispered. 'And we will never forget this.'

After a moment Fralia let her go, and stepped back from Merrin with a smile and misty eyes. Merrin had to avert her own stinging ones, and nodded.

'Go on, then. We don't want to keep you from your fellows.'

Then Avulstein walked up to her, and once again, it was time for goodbyes.

He looked at her with steely brows furrowed over his dark blue eyes, an uncertain expression on his face and hands clamped together in front of him. The sight of him pulled a smile from her, even as it panged.

Had she only known this man for five days? After all they'd seen and done together, it felt like so much longer. And after tonight, he'd be gone from this city, and Divines only knew if or when she'd see him again. In the silence of the greatroom, Merrin cleared her throat, awkward and at a loss for words. For several beats, the two just stood there. Then she startled as she remembered something, and turned again towards her pack.

'Your cloak. I still have it.' She drew the cloak out from the canvas bag, heavy and warm and fur-trimmed, and held it out to him when she turned around.

'You'll be needing it back.'

The words were out of place in that moment, and reliably, Avulstein snorted. But then a small smile played over his face, and he shook his head.

'I want _you_ to keep it. A gift, for all you did.' He'd taken a step toward her, and now he pushed gently at her outstretched hand, pressing the cloak towards her chest. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to; his eyes said it well enough. After a beat, Merrin smiled.

'Then I thank you, for the generous gift.'

'It's the least I can do.' Carefully, he shot a glance at his mother, who was standing now by the cook-fire and pretending not to listen. Leaning closer to Merrin, he lowered his voice.

'Thank you, Merrin...for everything. You were right – and I'm glad of it.' He reached out to her and grabbed her shoulder, gave it a squeeze.

'This trip has changed a lot for me...friend.'

Hearing that word sent ripples of warmth through her chest, and she nodded at him slowly, smile widening.

'I hope you take that change with you _wherever_ you go. No matter what you do – friend.'

He tipped his head to her, and his eyes were lit with understanding.

 _How far we've come, in just five days._

'I will. I swear it.'

She gave _his_ shoulder a squeeze in turn, and then they drew apart. Fralia came to stand by her son as Merrin put her new cloak away and shouldered her bag, as she made her way to the door. She turned with one hand on the knob, and raised the other in farewell.

'May the Gods watch over your battles.' _Despite me hoping that you won't have any._

Looking _so_ like his father, Avulstein nodded, raising a hand of his own.

'And yours.'

* * *

Merrin had closed the heavy wooden door behind her and taken _one_ step off the threshold, feeling heavy herself, when an unseen _hand_ closed around her wrist and she was yanked behind some nearby shrubbery with a yelp.

In the split-second she was grabbed, Merrin suspected one of the Battle-Borns – spying, maybe – and so she dropped her bag as she yanked herself free, and her hand went flying to her sword-hilt.

But no Battle-Born stood there in the leafy green shadows.

' _Farkas,'_ she gasped.

And it was; staring down at her with blue, blue eyes, his face framed by curtains of dark hair, Farkas stood with his back pressed up to one side of the house. As she stood there in shock he put a finger to his lips, urging her to be quiet as he glanced around to either side.

' _Shhh_. Yeah, it's me! What're you gonna do, _chop_ me?' His eyes had dropped to the hand on her sword-hilt, and Merrin couldn't help but scoff as she yanked it away.

' _No_. I thought—' She broke off mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as she stared up at him. Then—

'What are you _doing_ here?' She demanded, nearly spluttering. Seeing his face, hearing his voice had her heart hammering even harder then when she'd thought she was being attacked; combined with all her other messy emotions, it made her defensive. Both hands curled into fists, and she didn't trouble to keep her voice down.

' _Shhh! Quiet_ ,' he pleaded, casting another dogged glance into the courtyard beyond them. Then he looked down at her again, and met her glare.

'I don't want anyone else knowing you're back, just yet. I'm here because I needed to see you – see for myself you're alright.'

His words made her stomach lurch, and Merrin's irritation softened some as she crossed her arms and looked up at him. She shook her head, but lowered her voice.

'Alright...but what are you doing _here_ , in this shrub? Skulking around Fralia's back door?' She eyed him pointedly. 'How did you know where I _was_?'

'Oh. Uh...' He dropped her gaze, and looked instead over the top of her head, out into the Wind District.

'This isn't the best place to talk. Would you follow me?'

Merrin stared hard at the face of her friend for one full beat. Two. Then she shook her head again, and relented.

'Fine. Lead the way.'

He didn't take them very far – glancing furtively around, he hurried them 'round the back side of the house and ushered her through the little gate into the Gray-Mane's paddock. The closest stall was devoid of any four-legged friend, and Farkas hurried into it, beckoning for her to follow. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, she complied.

'There. Bit more private, this way.' His expression was serious, and even though there were shadows beneath the stall's peaked roof, his eyes were intent on her face.

'C'mere, let me look at you. I've been worried.'

The guilt in Merrin's chest flared at that, and when he reached out to grab her by the upper arms, she let him. She stared at Farkas as he looked her over, and noticed with another guilty start that he was looking tired; there were purple bags under his eyes, and it looked like he hadn't been keeping up his shave. He was armorless, in just breeches and a shirt of pale grey linen, and unarmed.

At the soft expression on his face, she was hit by a wave of emotion. The last few days had been dangerous; they had felt _very_ long. She'd thought _many_ times about the man now in front of her – what she would say to him, what he might say to _her_ when she finally got back. She had missed this place, but above all, she'd missed _him_.

The back of her throat constricted in a funny way, and she was struck with a sudden strong urge to go rushing into Farkas' arms.

But Merrin held herself back. Instead she took a steadying breath, shook her head, and forced herself to sound calm when she spoke.

'You still haven't answered my question. How did you know I was back, and where I was?'

'Uh...'

Farkas' eyes flicked down to hers, and then away. His cheeks colored ever so slightly. Was that a hint of _guilt_ on his face? With an odd little chuckle, he let go of her arms, and sat with a thump onto the hay bale pushed up against the back of the stall. Elbows on knees, he looked up at her with a face full of chagrin.

'I may or may not have hired one of the messenger boys to hang around the city wall and keep an eye out for you.'

She stared at him, silent and shocked, and he carried on in starts and stops, his voice low and quiet.

'All day...for two days now...so he could run and find me the second he saw you coming back.'

'Farkas.' Her emotions were a riot at hearing the words, no one feeling dominant for more than a flash, and she had no idea what her next words would be.

'...You _didn't_.'

'I _did_.' He raised his eyes to meet hers again, and the look she saw there told her that it was the truth.

For a second, she was just silent – holding her breath, thoughts racing. And then she surprised both of them, and _laughed_ ; a sharp burst of laughter that made the mule in the yard raise his head up from his grass to stare at them.

' _Why?_ '

'When you left, some of us didn't think you were coming back. With what happened with Vilkas, and how you gave no word.' He tilted his head, and dropped her gaze to stare instead at a knot in a wooden plank beside them. His voice went even lower.

'It was a rough couple'a nights. But then—' He shook his head. 'Your letter came. Kodlak read it, and then he read it to the _rest_ of the Circle. _I_ passed word on to the rest of the whelps—I mean, newbloods,' he corrected hastily.

'You promised Kodlak that you were coming back. I tried not to worry, but that didn't really work out. So I...hired a kid, to keep an eye out while I couldn't, and let me know as soon as you came back.'

Finally, he lifted his eyes back to hers.

'I had to see you for myself. Back home, and in one piece.'

In the wake of those words, her irritation turned to ash, and in its place Merrin was left holding all of the guilt from the past several days. Her shoulders slumped as she looked at him, and her mouth twisted.

'I'm sorry, Farkas. I shouldn't have left the way I did.'

'No, you shouldn't have.' He agreed with her, and as he looked up at her there was a flatness in his voice, a shimmering hurt in his eyes that stung her worse than any screaming would have done.

'I don't get it, Mer. How could you _do_ that? Just take off, without a word to anyone? Without a word to...' he clamped down on whatever he'd been about to add, and a muscle in his jaw worked as he seemed to chew on his feelings, the thought left unfinished.

'I was angry. I wanted to be left alone,' she replied, worrying the skin around her thumbnail ragged.

'And I told myself that the job I had to do was urgent – that I had no time to mess around with anyone's questions.'

Even as she offered them up, she could hear how feeble her old motives sounded. And hanging now in the air between them, it was plain to see that they were just excuses.

Her voice had the slightest tremble to it despite her efforts, and she sighed as she let them all go.

'I was embarrassed, and looking to get away. What I said back in the mead hall...about the dragon,' she said with some difficulty. 'I didn't want anyone to know. Not yet. It's...complicated.' It took a lot of resolve not to hang her head, to keep meeting his liquid blue gaze as she gave him the truth.

'Complicated. Huh.' Farkas leaned back so that he could rest against the wood of the house behind him. For a moment, they were both silent, staring. Then—

'Some farmers from the north came running into the city, while you were gone. All up in arms, saying to the Jarl that a dragon had burnt their wheat shares, an' killed most of their sheep.'

Merrin's mouth fell open, eyes wide as she looked at him.

'Wha—?'

'Balgruuf sent some of his guard, to check it out,' he continued over her. 'They haven't returned, yet. But the big man seems to be taking it serious. Folk are scared, after what happened in Helgen.'

He pierced her then with eyes gone suddenly intense, so that they didn't match his slow, reasoning tone of voice.

'You didn't want our questions. I can respect that. Understand it, even. But do _you_ understand?' His dark brows furrowed, and he set his jaw.

'By and large, the ones in Jorrvaskr wouldn't have just been _nosing around_ , with the questions they asked you. They'dve asked because they _care_ about you. Your well-being. What you've been through.'

It was a lot of words at once, for Farkas, and they left Merrin at a loss. Regret, remorse, humility wrapped around her like mist, and she didn't try to stop it. Her mouth opened and closed several times, with no sound coming out. Finally, she managed a stammering sentence.

'I...understand. _Now_. I didn't, before. I'm sorry Farkas, I didn't know.'

'Okay.' He nodded, but didn't seem placated. 'You understand _now_. So what _about_ now? If I asked you _now_ to talk to me about Helgen, would you talk?'

'...No.'

The word was hard to say, looking into his face, but she said it anyway. He didn't deserve anything less than the truth.

'I'm still not ready.' The news about the northern farms had shaken her; for the first time since she'd had it, her terrible nightmare came to the foreground of Merrin's mind, and she had to rein in a shiver as she shoved it down again. She straightened up, stood tall, but it didn't help much.

'...I'm afraid,' she finally admitted, in barely more than a whisper.

Farkas had crossed his arms over his chest, and was looking at her in a steady, unflinching sort of way, not moving – saying nothing. But despite all of this, there was nothing hard in the way he stared at her, and nothing cold. Something in his manner had softened as she answered him – something she couldn't place.

The silence in the stall stretched out, long and then longer still. Around their feet, the fluffy white chicken came weaving with its feathered head bobbing, hunting for bugs and softly clucking. Just when she was about to cave and ask what he was thinking, he nodded at her.

'I understand. Thanks for being honest with me.'

She let go of a breath she hadn't known she was holding. 'I still mean what I said, before I left – I _want_ to tell you the story. Eventually.'

Again, Farkas nodded at her. 'I know you do.'

'Well...what are you _thinking_ , then?' It bothered her, how badly she wanted to know.

'I'm just letting it sink in,' he answered, quietly. 'Letting go of the worry, and the hurt. You had me pretty pissed off there, for a while.'

He admitted it freely, with none of her difficulty. And then for the first time in the conversation, he smiled at her; it was the boyish, easy smile he'd given her the very first day they met, and seeing it now loosened the knot in Merrin's chest.

'I'm sorry, Farkas.' She shook her head. 'I didn't mean to worry you, or piss you off, and I'm sorry I did. I thought about _all_ of you, on the road...I missed you.' It felt corny to admit it, but she forced herself to say the words, anyway.

'From now on, I'll take one of you _with_ me, when I have to go do something dangerous...'

She quirked her brow, thought about it.

'At the very least, I'll _say_ something about it.'

She would learn quickly that Farkas wasn't the type to hold a grudge long; he seemed mollified by her words, and as his grin widened, she couldn't help but give a slow smile back. Looking down at him, she offered a hand.

'Alright? Are we square?'

He nodded.

'We're square.'

Then he grabbed her hand in his own much bigger one, and used her to hoist himself to his feet. He looked down at her gently, and she realized he was tracing her freckles with his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was warm.

'I missed you, too, Mer. It's good to have you back. And I'm sorry that you're afraid.'

Again, Merrin was hit with the urge to grab him, embrace him. This time, she gave in.

He was so thick in the waist that she could barely reach all the way around him; she rested her cheek on his broad shoulder, and sighed as she gave him a squeeze.

'It's good to _be_ back.'

For a split-second he seemed to stiffen, but then he relaxed and his arms came around her in a good, strong embrace that warmed her, even through her armor. For a second they stood that way, with Fralia's goat watching them blandly, and then they broke apart, both smiling. Farkas was a touch redder in the cheeks than before, but Merrin didn't notice. Then he coughed, and spoke up again.

'So...like I said, Kodlak read us your letter. Important trip. Hard, I bet. Did it go right?' For the first time, she noticed him staring at the long, scabbed-up scratch on her cheek, eyeing it warily.

Merrin let out something between a groan and a growl.

'It was _damn_ hard.' But then she nodded in a satisfied way, determined to be positive.

'But it went right, in the end. Better than right.'

He lifted one thick brow.

'And what about before it went right? Did things get hairy out there?'

'A bit. We took some tough knocks when it came to crunch time. Of course, the travel was shit. Oh—' She grimaced. 'And I took an arrow to the leg.'

He'd been nodding as she talked, but at this last, his eyes blew wide.

'What?' She asked quickly, defensively. 'It's healed up _now_.'

For several seconds, Farkas seemed to battle with himself, words crowding unsaid in his mouth. Then he swallowed them, and just shook his head.

'You'll tell me the story later?'

'Yeah. Later.' She nodded at him, and then smiled. She was thinking now about Thorald, the altmer barkeep, the family of khajiit, and feeling accomplished and warm. 'It's a story that needs some time to tell right.'

'Alright. But...so you're saying...he's safe now?' Even in the relative privacy of the stall, Farkas lowered his deep voice to little more than a whisper.

'Yeah.' The words still felt great to say out loud. 'He's safe.'

'I knew the brothers, growing up,' he said, thoughtfully. 'It's good to hear you got him out. You never said in the letter what you were saving him _from_ , though. Who...?'

'The Thalmor,' she whispered, disgusted. 'We were nearly too late. The bastards.'

She watched Farkas blanch, and then slowly, he nodded, blue eyes flashing.

'Woah. Okay. _Definitely_ a story that'll take some time to tell.'

'Like I told you it was.' She smiled grimly and nodded back, and he straightened up beside her.

'Alright. I did what I set out to do – got to see you, make sure you came back okay. Well, more or less,' he amended, staring down with some concern at her legs.

'We should probably grab your bag and head up to Jorrvaskr. The others'll wanna know you're back.'

He was right. With the air between the two of them cleared, Merrin felt lighter; everything she'd just been through seemed a bit easier to manage. And a large part of her was eager to reunite with the Companions – even though it would probably mean some questions.

'Then I guess we'd better not keep them waiting.' She smiled up at him wryly. 'You're the one who yanked me into a bush like a murderer and scared the shit out of me, so _you_ can carry my bag.'

'Yeah...' They slipped out of the wooden stall and started to back-track, but her joke didn't have its desired effect; when she looked up at him, she could see he looked uneasy.

'What's the face for?'

'I should warn you.' Farkas answered slowly as he bent to grab her rucksack, and threw it effortlessly over one shoulder.

'A few of the others are pretty burnt that you lit out the way you did. They might have something to say about it, when they see you.'

It wasn't hard for her to guess who 'a few of the others' might be, and a prickle of irritation itched between her shoulder blades. But Merrin shook her head resolutely and stood tall as they emerged into the afternoon sunlight, doing her best to control it.

'So let them. I'm a big girl. I can take it.' She glanced up at Farkas, saw him biting his lip, and shot him a smile she didn't quite feel.

'Thanks for the warning, though.'

But he must have seen through her; as they marched across the courtyard and up the front steps, he cajoled her.

'Hey, don't go in mad. I just thought of something.'

His voice had the slyest hint of jest in it. It made her suspicious.

'What?'

'You _said_ you got shot in the leg, but you never told me _where_. Are you by any chance trying to hide that you took an arrow to the kn—'

She scoffed and cut him off.

'Oh _Gods_! Shut _up_ , Farkas.' With Jorrvaskr's doors in front of them, she threw an elbow at his ribs that he neatly dodged, and rolled her eyes.

'You are _not_ as funny as you think you are.'

But a second later she snorted, and almost despite herself, a smile unfurled on her face. Just behind her, she could hear him chuckle.

* * *

When they pushed the doors open and strode into the mead hall, all heads present turned to see who'd come in.

When Ria saw that it was Merrin, the Imperial gave a little cry and sprang from where she'd been sitting with Torvar to rush into Merrin's arms. Merrin had the breath squeezed right out of her, and then Ria was grabbing Merrin's face in both hands, looking her over with dark, worried eyes.

'You're back! _Oh_ , thank the Gods! We've been so _worried_ about you!'

Torvar had gone rushing to the lower level stairs and had cracked open the door, shouting ' _Athis, she's back!_ ' Now he came to stand next to Ria, giving her a toothy grin.

' _See_ , Ria? I _told_ you the woman could handle herself.' He turned to Merrin then, pale blue eyes twinkling, and addressed the last bit to her.

'Good to see you back in one piece, foxy.'

'Foxy?' Merrin repeated it with a wrinkle of nose and brow. 'I'm—'

'Oh, _shut it_ , Torvar,' Ria interrupted, shooting him an acid look. ' _I_ was worried, okay?' She looked back to Merrin, exasperated, and used the hands still holding her face to give it a little shake.

'You scared the _crap_ out of me! What were you _thinking_ , doing something dangerous like that alone?'

It felt like being scolded by a cranky matron. Feeling freshly guilty, Merrin winced, and wrapped her hands around Ria's wrists to gently pry them away.

'I'm _sorry_ , Ria. I never meant to worry you. But I _wasn't_ alone. I had help.'

Athis came bounding up to the small group, and when he saw her, his eyes lit up. He tried to say something to her, but Ria cut over him.

'Who?'

'Eorlund's son,' Merrin answered quickly. And when Ria looked confused and said 'But...', she just shook her head and pressed on.

'It's a bit of a long story. And I'll tell it to you. But – ' she gripped Ria's hands in her own, and gave them a squeeze – 'I want you to understand that I _was_ careful, and I _had_ help, and most of all that I'm _fine_. Please stop worrying. I'm alright, and I was always coming back.' She gave her friend a tired smile.

'Right now, I'd just love nothing more than to sit _down_ for a while.'

For a second, Ria looked like she was going to press the issue. But then most of the worry left her eyes, and she slowly shook her head. Her shoulders relaxed, and a hint of her signature wryness came back as she let go of Merrin's hands.

'Fine. And for the record, I never doubted you'd come back, if you _could_ – you stole my dagger, and had to return it.'

Merrin and Farkas had just started to laugh and Athis was clapping Merrin on the shoulder and saying 'welcome back' when the doors to the hall's lower level suddenly came bursting open with a _crash_. It made all five of them jump, badly startled, and fall into silence. Five heads whipped around to see who would emerge on the stairs.

But in her heart, Merrin knew.

It was Vilkas, and he was looking thunderous.

He came stalking straight toward her, and with one look at his face, the other newbloods cleared a path. But he didn't pay them any mind. In his apparent rage, Vilkas seemed to only have eyes for her – eyes that tried to pierce her like two blue knives as he drew up in front of her.

' _You_.'

Definitely rage. His voice trembled with it when he said the word, and so did the finger that he jabbed toward her face. He was breathing hard.

'Vilkas...' Behind her, Farkas spoke up, sounding uneasy.

Vilkas cut over him, nostrils flaring, eyes boring into hers.

' _Finally_ back from flouting our rules and causing trouble, eh?' He hissed out a breath.

'What took you so long? Did you get _lost_?'

Instantly, Merrin's better mood evaporated. Her spine stiffened at his words, ram-rod straight. Her lip curled, and she glared at him, unflinching.

'That's none of you business. What is your _problem_?' She'd apologized to her friends, but she owed Vilkas nothing. Her voice was hard and sharp.

'That you would take a _risk_ like that,' he barked. 'That you worried Kodlak! You're nothing but a _whelp_ , and an insolent one! You don't _get_ to make calls like you did – run off, whenever you feel like it! Being a Companion means a sibling at your side, _always_ – not taking off like an idiot _child_ , on fairy-tale rescues!'

His voice had risen to a shout, and he'd waved his arms wildly as he'd shouted, his harsh voice bouncing off of the walls. Behind their group, Skjor and Aela came up the stairs, staring in some alarm at the cluster of bodies. But none of them took any notice.

Deep inside, Merrin felt a sharp stab of guilt that she'd made Kodlak worry. But she shoved it down. Her chest was swelling with temper now, and her hands balled to fists as she scowled at Vilkas. Like a fragmented crystal in the sun, snatches of memory flitted through her mind – Kodlak calling Vilkas a 'decent man'; Eorlund's voice. _'Nobody runs anybody, 'round here.'_ Thorald's battered face.

'Who died and made _you_ king?' She spat. 'You don't get to _talk_ to me like this.'

For a heartbeat, the room was filled by deep silence, like the calm in the eye of a storm. And then Vilkas snapped.

He took a lunging step toward her, getting right up in her space. Then he grabbed her with shaking hands by the collar of her breastplate, and yanked her forward, so that she could feel his hot breath on her face. All she could see anymore were his blazing eyes, his twisted face.

'You need to learn your _place_ ,' he growled.

The fires of Merrin's temper _surged_ at that – burnt her white-hot inside, like flash-fire from a powerful mage. Her jaw clenched so hard it cracked, and before she was conscious of deciding, she was moving. Vilkas was in plainclothes, with a tunic rolled up to the elbows and his forearms bare. Viciously, she clamped both hands around those forearms and _dug_ every nail into his flesh. She felt it break under her with a feral satisfaction, and while he gave the slightest flinch, he didn't withdraw. Her amber eyes _burned_ with that inner fire as she faced him down.

'My _place_ ,' she managed through gritted teeth, 'will never be answering to the likes of _you_.'

He _snarled_ – an actual snarl, like an animal – and then as she watched, his blazing eyes changed.

One second they were his normal silver-blue. In the next, they went a pure, unnatural silver; as bright and liquid as molten metal, without a trace of blue. Even in her fury, the change shocked her. By a fraction, her grip on him loosened as she stared.

It had all happened so fast; the others in the room had all stood frozen and dumbfounded as Merrin and Vilkas had clashed. But now the spell had broken. From the head of the stairs, Aela started cutting a swift path toward them. The whelps behind Vilkas all took a step back – all save for Ria, who Torvar had to grab.

But Farkas was quickest. Stepping around her in a flash, he came up behind his brother and brought his huge hands down over Vilkas' shoulders.

'Brother, come on, that's enough. Let her go.'

He sounded upset, but in an odd sort of undertone; the primary notes in Farkas' voice were cajoling and uneasy, worried – like he was trying to appeal to Vilkas. Something in that voice made the hairs on the back of Merrin's neck stand on end.

Those strange silver eyes went whipping back to glare at Farkas as Vilkas tried to shake him off.

'Leave it alone, Farkas,' he snapped, his voice rough and distorted. 'This doesn't concern you.'

Farkas opened his mouth to reply, but what he'd planned on saying, they never found out.

' _What_ in the name of the _Nine_ is goin' on here?!'

No one had noticed the front doors opening, but they noticed it _now_ ; Eorlund Gray-Mane was filling the door-frame, staring at them all with wide eyes. He was holding a familiar piece of paper in one hand, and looking as if a strong wind would knock him over.

In the sudden shocked silence, the blacksmith took in the bizarre scene before him – Merrin lifted nearly off her feet by Vilkas, who was in turn being grappled by Farkas behind him, the pale faces of the whelps behind _him_ , and the sharp green eyes of the Huntress beside them. Eorlund's face went red, and he let out a bellow that echoed through the mead hall.

' _Vilkas Jergenson,_ you let go of that woman _THIS – INSTANT!'_

The effect this had on the room was profound; pin-drop silence settled over all present, and several mouths came falling open. Astoundingly – maybe from the pure shock of it – Vilkas obeyed Eorlund's command, and let Merrin go. She stumbled from the sudden change in weight; before she'd even righted herself, Farkas had clamped two vice-like arms around his brother's chest and started dragging him several huge steps back, scattering the newbloods yet again. He put his mouth to his twin's ear and started murmuring something that only Vilkas could hear. Vilkas' forearms bled from where Merrin's nails had pierced the skin, and red rivulets were snaking down his wrists. But his eyes were no longer liquid silver – they'd gone back to their normal blue.

It was Eorlund who finally broke the silence.

'Merrin...is it true?'

His voice was raw with suppressed emotion, and he looked as if his own hopes were betraying him. Weakly, he lifted the hand holding the letter.

'You've...freed my boy? My Thorald?'

She'd been awhirl with anger still for Vilkas when she was let go, her insides seething with a venomous jumble that she couldn't express. But at the look in Eorlund's eyes as he clutched the doorframe, all of it seemed to just...vanish. The room around her took on a secondary quality as she locked eyes with the smith, and nodded.

'Yes. Thorald is free, and healthy, and he told me to give you his love.' She could hear the triumph in her own voice, and the ragged edges.

An inarticulate sound tore from Eorlund's throat. And then—

' _Gods be praised!_ '

He covered the distance between them in two paces, and wrapped her into a hot, sweaty, crushing hug that lifted her clear off the ground and made every vertebrae in her back crack.

'I can never thank you enough,' he moaned, weeping freely on her shoulder. ' _Thank_ you, girl, thank you! Thank you for saving my boy.'

This trip had exhausted Merrin, in truth – physically, and emotionally. She was tired, and aching, and chafed, and overwrought. Her nerves had been put through their paces, and her face was covered in awful sunburn...

But in that moment, being crushed and cried on by Eorlund, she felt in her heart of hearts that it had cost her nothing. Whatever she'd suffered to bring on _this_ moment, it was well worth it.

It was clear from the reactions of the others in the room that this was exceptional behavior from Eorlund. It must have cowed Vilkas considerably, because when he cleared his throat and spoke, he still sounded angry, but nowhere near where he _had_ been.

'She showed a serious lack of judgment by leaving on her own, Eorlund. She needs to be reprimanded— '

'On what grounds?' Eorlund boomed. He set Merrin carefully back on her feet and then threw a harsh glare at Vilkas, tear tracks streaking through soot from the forge.

'She _wasn't_ alone! You weren't there – you don't know what you're talkin' about.'

Vilkas looked like he had a terrific headache building, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'That may be so, but she can't just _run off_ like she did. Jobs need _approval_ before we can just go and—'

This was clearly the wrong thing to say; Eorlund bristled to his full height and clenched his hands into fists.

'That girl,' he said, voice shaking with barely controlled emotion as he jerked his head toward Merrin, 'has shown more gods- _damned_ initiative than any of you. How long have you _KNOWN_ that my son was missing?'

His eyes were wild as he glared at the other people in the room, accusatory.

'And yet, you did _nothing!_ Not a _one_ of you! My son is _safe_ from Thalmor clutches because this woman in front of me heard one _whisper_ of his trouble!'

He set one huge, calloused hand on her shoulder and squeezed, drawing up to stand right beside her, and his face was set into belligerent lines.

'So what do you think to punish her for, then? _Hmm_? What?' The older man looked derisively at Vilkas, and then around the hall.

'It looks to _me_ like you're ashamed, that she did what _you_ should've done long ago!'

The other people in the room were now _looking_ thoroughly ashamed – even Vilkas. He opened his mouth, but for once, no words came out.

'You're absolutely right, my old friend.'

The words had been spoken from across the room, in _Kodlak's_ rich timber. Again, every head in the room whipped around with a murmur.

The Harbinger was standing at the top of the stairs, beside Skjor. His gaze swept the room, and he looked solemn as he entreated Eorlund with stormy grey eyes, and a nod.

'It shames me, that only one of our number was there for Thorald. I am overjoyed to hear of his escape, and _however_ we end up resolving this situation, I promise you that Merrin's heroics will be properly taken into account.'

Merrin's heart was beating fast. She looked from the Harbinger, to Eorlund, to Vilkas, not knowing what to say, or think. Beside his brother, Farkas smiled at her, and flashed her a thumbs-up in the silence.

Before anyone could say more, though, that silence was broken by yet _another_ unexpected entrance.

'I apologize for the intrusion, Harbinger.'

It was Irileth, standing in the doorway Eorlund had left open, red eyes flashing as she took in the tense surroundings.

'Noble housecarl.' Kodlak addressed the elf as everyone stared at her, sounding surprised. 'What brings you—'

'The Companions obviously have some business to settle, in house. But it will have to wait.' The dunmer's eyes flicked to rest on Merrin, boring into her with their intensity, and her handsome face was set into grim lines.

'Merrin Hakonsdotter, the Jarl calls to you for aid – effective immediately. There's been a dragon sighted at the Western Watchtower.'

* * *

 **What did you think of this chapter? Leave me a review, and let me know!**


	14. Chapter 14

**20th Morning Star, 4E182**

'I don't understand, da. Why do _you_ have to go?'

Her lower lip quivered and she did her best to hide it, but she needn't have bothered; her father's head was bent over his work, and he didn't see her face.

The flames in the hearth cast their light around the room, making her father's red hair and beard go fiery and glinting wickedly off the spearhead he sharpened with grim determination.

Outside of their cabin, winter held their village in cruel, piercing claws that seemed like they'd never relent. She couldn't remember another so cold – too cold even for snow, the bare black earth turned into iron. Worst of all was the whipping wind that rattled through the trees like a hand of death – stealing the breath from the young and the old, killing the small things that called the forest home, and making their firewood burn much too fast, just trying to keep it at bay. It had been many moons since she'd been allowed to venture outside, and for once, what she saw through their single window didn't encourage her.

It wasn't safe to go outside. In her small heart of hearts, she knew this was why her father had to go. But knowing wasn't accepting.

'I've already told you, little bird.' From his place at their table, he sighed, and raised his head to fix her with blue, blue eyes.

'It's this bitter cold, throwing everything off kilter. The whole village is running low on food, and firewood. It's hardly safe to go and gather more. And now—'

'The wolves?' She interrupted, her voice small and trembling.

He nodded grimly.

'The wolves. They're hungry too. But too much of what they normally hunt has gone and died in this freeze. Now they look to us.'

There was more he wasn't saying. But she knew enough; the night before, some other village men had come calling, bundled up to the eyes, to speak with her father. And he'd sent her away to wait downstairs...but no one had checked to see that she'd really gone. No one had noticed the little listener on the steps...

They'd spoken in voices rushed and grating, baring news – all of it bad.

It had started five nights ago – a tough bitch-dog let out to take a piss, that never came back inside when called. Her owner found her the next morning, just where the forest met the village, torn apart and picked nearly clean. One day later it happened again, this time with a prized herding hound. And then again, with two sheep. Finally came the news from one night before; at Shalefist farm, just outside the village, Markon Shalefist had a mare go into labor. He'd sent his oldest son, a grown man, out to the barn to oversee the foaling; having heard of the attacks and not wanting to take chances, he'd sent him with their biggest dog, and armed with a cross-bow and bolts.

All for nothing. When the son stayed out in the barn all night, they figured it'd just been a difficult foal. But when old Shalefist went out the next morning, he'd found the shock of his life. The bolt on the barn-doors had been broken, long claw-marks scratched deep into the wood, and inside was nothing but death. The mare, the newborn foal, the dog, and worst of all, Markon's first-born – all torn apart and ravaged, in the bloody, matted straw. The fight hadn't been one sided, though; the son had the crossbow in hand where he'd fallen, and a wolf lay dead too, with a bolt in its chest. Much too thin, it had been, with a coat much thicker than usual – and also partially eaten. Apparently these wolves were so hungry that not even their own kind were out of the question.

It had been the last straw. With Markon and his wife beside themselves and the remains of their eldest waiting for earth you could shovel, the villagers decided that enough was enough. Something had to be done, and quickly. Her father had agreed to help readily enough. But when one of the more fearful men there started to describe the corpses in better detail, he'd cut them off sharply.

'Hush, Leifek! Now's not the time. My girl is downstairs.' She'd heard the scrape of a chair then, recognized her father's footfall as he came to peer down the stairwell, and she'd had to scarper down the steps as quick as she could to avoid being seen. She'd raced across the cold flagstone and leapt into her father's bed, yanking the covers up over her head and forcing herself to lay still and quiet. She'd heard him come down the stairs, and then felt his eyes on her blanketed back, and had done her best not to give herself away. She must have fooled him, because a long moment later he'd sighed and gone back up the stairs.

The men had stayed only briefly after that, planning in a muffle she couldn't make out, and then had gone back to their own homes. She had laid there unmoving when her father returned, cursing softly under his breath and blowing out the candles. He hadn't bothered to carry her to her own bed upstairs – had simply slipped under the furs and blankets beside her – and she didn't know which one of them had lain awake the longer.

When he'd sat her down this morning and told her the news about the wolves, she'd done her best to act surprised. Secretly, selfishly, she'd wished with all her little girl's heart that he would change his mind – leave the work to others. Surely, that wasn't wrong of her? He was all she had.

But now he had his gambeson on, and the edge of the spearhead glinted between them in the flickering firelight.

She tried to be strong – she really did. Tried to hold in the words bubbling up. But—

'I don't want you to go out there, da.'

'I know you don't, love, and I'm sorry. But we don't have a choice.' He smiled at her then, apologetically.

'The wolves are too dangerous. We can't let them stay so close to our borders. The men have all agreed to fight—'

'But you don't _like_ to fight!'

The words came out louder than she'd meant them to be; the sudden noise caused the enormous boarhound curled up at her feet to raise his sleek head and look at her with hazel eyes full of concern.

Her father shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. I can't let anything happen to you. I made a promise, remember?' He eyed her significantly, and didn't have to explain.

She knew he was talking about mama.

It had been three years, but just then, it was still too fresh. Too painful to think about. She nodded reluctantly at his question, and sucked in a breath as she blinked rapidly, trying to fight off the tears. When her father saw her, his whole face softened.

'Hey, hey. None of that, now. Come here.'

He slid from his chair down onto his knees, and when she got close enough he wrapped her up in his strong, padded arms and murmured in her ear, rubbing her back with one calloused hand.

'Don't cry, little bird. Your mama is watching over us both now, remember? Because she loves us. Loves _you_.'

'I k-know,' she answered shakily.

'Well then, try to understand. I _have_ to do this now, because we all love you. I love you _so_ much.'

Suddenly, she felt the whiskers of his beard crinkle in a smile against her ear.

'And Ragnar loves you too.'

'But da,' she protested weakly. 'Ragnar is just a dog.'

He pulled back to look at her then, and as it did so often, the smile she saw on his face coaxed out one of her own – albeit a watery one.

'And yet, from the day I brought him home and he laid eyes on you, he's been more _your_ dog than mine!' He growled the words playfully, eyes bright and teasing.

'I paid good money for that dog. For hunting, guarding...and one look at you, and he'd rather be playing hide and seek, chasing you through the trees.'

It was true, and she knew it; even as they spoke, Ragnar lifted himself from his place on the floor and came to stand beside her, rubbing his head into her open palm and whining. Cheered by her dog, and her father's words, she looked up at him again.

'If you go, do you _promise_ to be safe?'

At the look on his daughter's face, Hakon's heart skipped a beat in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. She was growing so fast...and she looked _so_ much like Sigva when she looked at him like that, brows arched and brown eyes wide and searching, trying (succeeding) to be forceful. For a second, the pain in his chest arrested his answer. But then he shook himself, pulled himself back into the moment. He chuckled, and his face fell into an easy grin.

'I _promise_. Cross my heart. Me and Ragnar will be safe as houses.' His blue eyes gave a merry twinkle, and he chucked a finger beneath her chin.

'And when we come back, we'll bring you some fresh meat to eat – with the way you've been growing, Gods know it won't be wasted.'

She laughed at that, swatting at her father's hand, and he joined her in laughing. For a moment, everything in the cabin was easy and bright again.

Then came an urgent hammering at the door.

Her father's face fell as they quieted, and he rushed to meet whoever was knocking. They didn't come inside, so she couldn't see who it was from where she was standing. But she heard him; the man sounded as grim and urgent as his knock.

'It's time, Hakon. The rest of the men are set to go. We need to move while there's still light. Are you ready?'

'Nearly.'

From there, proceedings in the cabin were a blur; sturdy boots were donned, spearhead and haft were reunited, and a rucksack was slung on. In next to no time, her father was standing ready with Ragnar at his heel; the boarhound no longer looked sleepy, but tensed and alert. Hakon called to their neighbor that he'd be with him momentarily. Then he crossed the distance between father and daughter, and knelt in front of her a second time.

Anxiety had spiked in her chest again; she couldn't help it. She was thinking of what she'd overheard – of Londar Shalefist being ripped apart – and her hands were shaking when they grabbed her father's much bigger ones.

'Are you _sure_ you have to do this, da?'

'Yes. I'm sure.' As he squeezed her hands, his voice was uncharacteristically rough. The air around them had grown very thick and serious.

'But _why?_ ' she despaired. 'Anything could happen! What if—'

But he interrupted her.

' _Because_ , Merrin.' He spoke over her forcefully, and then all of a sudden he grabbed her, and wrapped her in a crushing hug that squeezed the breath from her. He continued in a low, rushed tone, speaking right above her ear. Hakon didn't know it then, but the words would stick with Merrin forever.

'When there's danger, you protect what matters to you – no matter the cost.'

He pulled away from his daughter, saw that she was trying hard to be brave. After a moment she nodded, and he let her go.

'Good. I've got to go now. Keep this door _locked_. And wait for me – I _will_ be back.'

And with the thud of the cabin door closing, she was alone.

* * *

 **10th Hearthfire, 4E201**

For a full moment after Irileth's announcement, the mead hall was absolutely silent. The elf stood staring at ten shocked faces, ten mouths hanging open to varying degrees. The only sound was the crackling of the fire. And then nearly everyone started shouting at once.

The confused panic rang in Merrin's ears like a clattering of jackdaws, so grating that it broke through her momentary daze. She ground her teeth in frustration, and then threw her hands up into the air she let out a yell louder than all the rest.

' _EVERYBODY, QUIIIEEEET!'_

Again, all present fell mostly silent, and Merrin turned to look at the housecarl.

'A dragon?' She asked quickly. 'Are you sure?'

'There's nothing else it _could_ be, serah.'

'As you say,' Merrin conceded. 'But – why does the Jarl ask for _my_ help?'

'You were at Helgen's burning. You are the _only_ person in this city who has experience with dragons!'

And so, one way or another, the skeever was truly out of the bag; there was _absolutely_ no hiding now. Standing in the thick of this insane situation, a part of her almost wanted to laugh. The rest was tempted to tear her hair out.

Internally, Merrin was standing on a knife's edge; it would be all too easy to let herself fall. She was exhausted from all she'd just done – she felt spent, or very near to it. In the stretching, uneasy silence, she took one second to throw a weary question up at the gods— _why?—_ and consider what would happen if she put down her weapons and told Irileth to leave.

But only one second. She knew as soon as she allowed herself to wonder that she couldn't back down, no matter how gripped she was by fear. Unbidden, her father's urgent voice from all those years ago came clearly to her now, the way it had so many times before.

 _When there's danger, you protect what matters to you – no matter the cost._

What did it matter that she was tired? Scared? The dragon wouldn't wait for her to rest. There was danger, and she would protect what mattered to her.

Rolling her shoulders in resolution, she looked back at the group of people around her; in later times, many would talk of the wild look she'd had in her eyes. In a fleeting moment she took in the shock, the fear, the disbelief and anger – felt it mirrored in herself. And then she looked back to Irileth, and nodded.

'Let's not waste any time, then. Lead me.'

* * *

She'd followed the Dunmer warrior out of Jorrvaskr, filled once again with the clamor of voices, and the pair had hurried down the stone steps beyond. Irileth shouted over her shoulder that there wasn't time to report to the Jarl in Dragonsreach, and Merrin had merely nodded, trying to fight back the feeling that she'd finally gone too far.

They'd just made it to the Gildergreen when they heard a loud crashing through the open doors of Jorrvaskr, and a man's voice yelling ' _Farkas—!'_. Merrin looked back at the commotion, and what she saw had her heart doing a somersault in her chest; Farkas himself running after her, still in plainclothes, and greatsword in hand. Irileth rushed her along, but he caught up to them on the stairs to the Plains district and reached out to snatch her by the hand. This yanked Merrin to a halt, and when Irileth noticed and turned to scowl up at him, he addressed the housecarl in a defiant bark.

'I'm comin' along to fight with my shield-sister – whether you like it or not.'

Irileth opened her mouth, but Merrin cut in over her, looking up at her friend and speaking in a rush, giving his hand a squeeze.

'Farkas, you can't! You aren't even wearing _armor_ , for Gods' sa—'

'I don't _care_ ,' he interrupted loudly. 'I'm _not_ letting you face down a dragon alone! No matter what happens out there, I'm having your back.'

His blue eyes were blazing with determination as they met her own, and her heart gave another mad tumble at the sight. For a split second, she wanted to argue – but she relented instead, and gave a speechless nod.

Irileth was quite unmoved by the exchange; she made a sharp, impatient sound, and gestured at the stairs.

'We don't have time to stand around! Quickly, _whoever_ is coming, let's move on!'

The three of them ran headlong down the steps and into the marketplace. When they passed the guards who usually stationed there, Irileth shouted for them to join them, Jarl's orders, and the men fell into line without asking questions, shoving on their helmets and looking confused. She repeated herself for every guard they met, so that by the time they reached the barracks by the city gate, they made a sizeable group. Still more poured from the wooden building at the urging of the sentry on the roof, and Irileth called to these men, too.

'Men! Where is your Captain?'

As the Jarl's housecarl, Irileth pulled the same rank as the captain of the city guard; instantly, a man standing in the threshold answered her.

'Captain Caius was called away to Whitewatch Tower. Something about the battlements needing—'

'It doesn't matter,' the Dunmer interrupted. 'He's too far away! Listen carefully, all of you. Your Jarl requires your immediate service!'

In Merrin's opinion, it was a credit to Whiterun's guard that none of them panicked or ran; as Irileth brought them up to speed, she saw several faces go pale with shock and fear, but all of them stood their ground.

Finally, one of them spoke up – one of the men who'd followed them down from the Plains district.

'But Irileth, how are we supposed to fight off a _dragon?_ None of us has so much as _seen_ one before!' His words sparked a rippling murmur of agreement through several more of the assembled, and his eyes were beseeching as he stared at the elf.

Irileth squared her shoulders and raised her chin. 'We don't know for certain we _will_ be fighting it – when the guard who broke cover to report saw it last, the brute was just circling overhead. We won't know until we see for ourselves.'

'But Helgen – and the northern farms—'

'Were defenseless, and taken by surprise,' she retorted fiercely. 'Whiterun will be _neither!_ '

But she must have seen that they were shaken; her proud face softened slightly, and she reached out to grab the man by the shoulder and give him a shake before she addressed the group at large.

'I know that you're afraid. We know not what we face – this enemy is strange to us.'

All around Merrin, there was another roll of murmuring. Irileth shook her head.

'But who among us has never known fear? Only fools and the dead never doubt – what matters is what lies beneath!'

'We face the unknown, but we are _not_ untested! The brave men and women who serve this cityhave proven time and again that _courage_ reigns in their hearts – they _conquer_ their fear as they conquer their enemies, and rise to face the tide!'

The group around them was starting to get louder, agreeing now instead of protesting, steeling themselves for the coming battle. Their strength added to hers, and Merrin straightened her spine with resolve as she glanced Farkas' way. He caught her movement and met her eye, giving her a nod that was unusually grave.

Irileth's voice had risen to a shout. She unsheathed the sword at her hip with a metallic ring and thrust the blade skyward over her head – sunlight bounced brightly off of the steel, and behind it the sky was brilliantly blue. The elf was the picture of determination, of will.

'So _rise!_ Whiterun guard, your city needs you! Grab hold of your courage, and _answer the call!_ '

It was the push the men had needed; all around her, Merrin watched as guards in the yellow garb of Whiterun raised their voices _and_ their swords, blades to the sky and courage beating in their breast. Beside her Farkas let out a whooping yell, and beat a closed fist against his unarmored chest. Irileth resheathed her blade, and then pushed the city gate open with both hands amidst the din, yelling to be heard.

'Good! Now stick together, and follow me!'

The cheering fell silent fairly quickly as the group ran down the city ramparts and onto the surrounding plain. It was eerie out here; the birds that normally wheeled overhead had suddenly all vanished – not a single one in sight. Worse still was the racket coming from the stables: the horses must've been able to sense the danger nearby, and they'd all gone wild in their stalls, kicking the wooden walls and doors and piercing the air with their panicked shrieks. The stablemaster and his son could both be seen running up and down the stall rows, waving their arms and shouting at the beasts. There was a good chance that they didn't even know what had the horses so terrified, and in their efforts to make sure none broke free, they had no way of finding out. But there was no time to warn them...

They hadn't made it very far from the city, when they were met with a sight that had many shouting out.

 _Smoke_. Curling dark and thick into the sky overhead, what could be seen of the western watchtower was shimmering in a haze of smoke, distorted by waves of heat.

 _The dragon did more than circle overhead._

Irileth snarled out a curse, and then had the entire group running twice as hard to get to the tower.

As Merrin sprinted alongside the others toward what would surely be a fight, she was locked in a fight of her own: a struggle against the panic that was trying to choke her. Her heart was thundering so hard in her chest it felt as if it would burst through her ribs, and her thoughts were a desperate tangle. Above all the rest, one fear rose to batter her; the closer she came to the tower, the more insistent it grew.

 _What would happen to her when she saw the dragon again? What if she couldn't handle it?_

Thinking it made her shudder. She still had nightmares about Helgen; with the barest of efforts, she could see it as if it were right in front of her. She could hear the screams, and smell the burning flesh...see the raging fires. And above all, she could see the crimson glow of the black dragon's evil stare – the eyes of Alduin, locked fast with hers. She could feel the force of his voice. Merrin wasn't sure she'd be able to handle it if she were confronted by them now...

Helgen had been a slaughter. She'd barely made it out alive. What would happen to the people around her, if that awful lizard were to swoop down on them? The most likely answer made her want to vomit.

But in spite of it all, she kept running towards the fires getting clearer up ahead. Gritting her teeth, she shoved back hard against the fear clawing up her throat and trying to seize her muscles.

She had to do all she could to keep the dragon from attacking the city. She _had_ to...

By the time Irileth called for the lot of them to stop and take cover, the scene in front of them spoke for itself.

The tower was a mess. A section of the ramparts had been smashed to rubble as if they were made of soapstone, with chunks the size of a man tossed pell-mell out onto the plain. Huge swaths of the grass around them had been scorched to nothing but blackened earth, and the wooden barricades had been lit up like kindling, so they stood there now as little more than ash, sending smoke trails into the sky overhead.

Nothing ahead of them moved, and aside from the soft crackle of flame, the only sound was the breeze.

Irileth was the first to break the silence, swearing harshly in dunmeris. She didn't turn away from the ruin in front of them – just spoke to them behind her, as she eyed the dismal scene.

'Alright. Clearly, we've missed some action. But that doesn't mean we let our guards down...everyone, weapons out.'

The guardsmen hurried to obey, swords unsheathed and bows unshouldered. Irileth shot a quick glance at Merrin just as she took her bow in hand, red eyes hard and flashing as she unsheathed her sword.

'Hakonsdotter, what should we expect from the beast, if it returns?'

Merrin sucked in a breath, and forcefully shoved the thought of Alduin away as the rest of the group turned to stare at her.

'You see what's happened here. The dragon will be fast, and strong.' She spoke quickly – relieved when her voice didn't catch.

'Nothing but cover or dumb luck will save you from that fire – we need to be smart and fast on our feet.'

'Well, at least I'm _one_ of those,' Farkas answered with a grin. Around him, a few men chuckled weakly.

Merrin couldn't help it – she glowered at him.

'This is no time to be _joking_ , Farkas! We could lose people. We likely already _have_.'

His face fell at her harsh words, and she was immediately guilty, but she couldn't apologize; Irileth cut over them both, urgent and demanding.

'Focus, people!' Her eyes lit into Merrin again, sharp and expectant. 'Anything else?'

She nodded, repressing another shudder. 'It likely won't land to engage us, so long as it has a chance of roasting us from the air. But if it _does_ land, stay clear of both ends. Head _and_ tail can both take you out. And...the legends are true.' She grimaced.

'Dragons can Shout, like in the stories. The force can flatten you, if you're not on your guard.' She glanced around at their pale faces, looking grim and afraid, and shook her head.

'We all need to be careful.'

Irileth was like a rock in a stormy sea; she nodded resolutely at all Merrin had said, and if she felt a trace of fear, she didn't let it show. Her striking grey face was set and determined, and her back and shoulders were ramrod straight as she addressed the group.

'Right, then. You heard the woman – fast, smart, and careful! That's how we survive this mission! Now, we can see the tower's been hit, but we don't know the extent of the damage. I want two even groups'—she made a splitting motion with her arms down the centre of the gathered party—'and we're going to assess the scene. Look for answers, and look for survivors. Most importantly, keep an eye on the skies! We don't want the bastard getting the drop on us.'

With a murmur of assent the group split into halves, and then both took off in two separate directions to begin the search. The adrenaline coursing through Merrin's body had burned away most of her exhaustion – a blessing, no doubt. But the nervous energy of the group was palpable, to the point where it tingled over the skin; she was grateful to have Farkas with her, and when she looked to him beside her, the smile he shot her couldn't quite mask his unease. His nostrils were flared, and his shoulders kept dipping as he took big, heavy breaths, as if he were trying to taste the air. It was strange, but she had no time to dwell on it.

The quiet murmur of anxious men joined the sounds of the wind and crackling embers. As their group moved, they encountered more wreckage, but nothing particularly informative. The men around her kept glancing skyward as they prodded through rocky rubble, clutching their weapons and muttering. Their first shocking discovery came abruptly, as they rounded the corner of the shattered rampart.

A dead body—or rather, the lower half of one. A swath of gore spilled over the grass where the body had fallen, the unlucky victim's intestines tumbling like so much unravelled yarn from the torn and bloody cavity, and the air was rank with the smell of shit from where some of the entrails had burst.

Several of them shouted or groaned at the gruesome sight, before clapping hands over mouths; one of their number leaned over where he stood, and was violently sick in the grass. Merrin's stomach gave a hard roll of its own, and she covered her nose and fought not to gag as she stared at the corpse. The upper half was nowhere around, but the boots and chausses were city issue, and a blood-soaked sash around the hips was still discernibly yellow in spots. This had been a Whiterun guard.

'Somebody needs to tell Irileth about this.'

Farkas' voice behind her was tighter and grimmer than she'd ever heard it, and when she looked up and over her shoulder, his face was pale and drawn.

The housecarl had split off with the other group, and one of the guardsmen nodded at the Companion before he bolted off to inform her. There was some quiet moaning as the rest of them stood there, several men muttering jerkily. It was Merrin who shook her head, and spoke up.

'This is awful, but we need answers. There may be survivors yet – we should keep moving.'

The group listened to her, and they moved on. But now the men looked skyward twice as often, sweeping the deep blue with eyes full of fear, and sticking closer together than before.

They figured out quickly that what remained of the rampart was clear of survivors and dead alike, and turned their attention to the tower itself. Merrin was hopeful that some of the watch had survived by retreating inside, and it was she who lead the group as they stole cautiously up the stone ramp to the singed wooden doors. They were no more than a few steps away when those doors came suddenly blasting apart.

A man stood heaving in the threshold – another guard, with his Whiterun mantle torn and flapping, and blood caked and drying in his trim brown beard. He stared at them with wild eyes, and spoke at them in a furious whisper.

'What are you fools doing?! You aren't safe – it's still out here somewhere!' His terrified gaze swept the sky behind them, and then he craned his neck to look at the mountains to their left.

'Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they made a run for it! I told them not to chance it – I _told them!_ '

The sound of the heavy doors banging open had attracted the other group's attention; from their position a stone's throw away, Irileth had peered up to see what made the sound. Several of the guards in Merrin's group had started furiously waving the housecarl over, and now the elf's group was converging on theirs, but they still had a way to go. Not daring to reach out and grab his shoulder, Merrin addressed the terrified guard, keeping her voice low like his.

'Calm yourself, man. Tell me, when did you last see the dragon? Where did it go?'

'I'm not s-sure...after Tor, it flew off again – I didn't see where, 'cause I was in here! I just heard the...' He broke off with a dry sob; his eyes were unfocused, and he was clearly in shock. 'I barely made it inside in time. I barely made it—'

'What's going on?' Irileth's commanding voice cut through the air, much louder than Merrin or the guard's had been, and the man flinched from head to toe as he looked to the Dunmer woman behind them.

'It's Demyen, Irileth.' One of the guards in their group rushed to answer, keeping his voice down to just above a whisper. 'He survived the attack! He says the others got snatched when they tried to run for the city. The dragon flew off not too long ago, but he ain't sure where. And he thinks it's still around somewhere, but—'

'What makes you say that, man?' Irileth turned her sharp gaze onto Demyen, but the traumatized man only stared at her, dazed. Seeing it, several of the men assembled tittered nervously.

The housecarl seemed to remember then that all present were looking to her, because she shook her head with a snort and addressed them firmly as a whole, the rest of her group trailing up behind her.

'Never mind. There will be plenty of time for talk. First we need to—'

But the rest of her sentence was suddenly drowned out by a terrible, rolling roar that had the men crying out, and every hair on the back of Merrin's neck standing straight on end. As one, the group looked frantically to the sky, eyes roving the cloudless blue. But it was the petrified Demyen who let out a sudden wail, and stabbed a shaking finger into the sky over the mountains.

'Kynareth, save us – here he comes _again!_ '

Merrin's head whipped with several others to look where he pointed, her heart squeezing awfully in her chest, and it skipped several beats altogether when she saw what Demyen had seen. Cast into silhouette by the sun, a mighty wingspan stretched to the limit, coasting the wind toward them. And with the shape of the body, the tail, the horned head – there could be no mistake. The dragon was back.

As the lot of them stood in that moment of still terror, the dragon called out to them. His rich voice boomed easily over the wind. And Merrin understood.

'Ahrk nu, hi bo? Geh! Ru wah grind hin dinok, meyei!'

 _And still, you come? Yes! Run to meet your death then, fools!_

At the sound of that voice, panic broke wild over their group. Some men reared back, shouting incoherently; the least experienced among them loosed feeble arrows poorly aimed, with no hope of making their mark. Still others started pushing from the back of the group, trying frantically to worm their way through and get inside the tower. The confusion was awful, and with someone less capable than Irileth holding the reins, it quickly could've tipped into chaos.

But the Dunmer woman was smart; tactically minded, and damn-near unshakeable. With her eyes never leaving the dragon, she pressed herself against the wall of the rampart and let loose a bellow that cut above all the rest.

'Everybody inside the tower, _now! Now – INSIDE!_ '

Merrin was staring transfixed at the dragon flying towards them at remarkable speed, and was nearly trampled by the group of men rushing to carry out their leader's orders. The only thing that saved her was Farkas grabbing the back of her breastplate and yanking her aside, and it was only when he started dragging her through the door that she snapped out of her paralysis. The dragon would be on the tower in moments, and Irileth was shouting to the last of the men, the ones who'd been the farthest out, to hurry up as they streaked through the door. Demyen was somehow still in the threshold; in his state, he didn't even seem to notice the other men battering him as they rushed to safety. He was just stunned and gaping as he stared in mute horror at the dragon bearing down on them – and no one had thought to grab him in the crush. Irileth was the very last through the door, and she was the one to do it. The dragon gave a blood-curdling roar as she yanked him through the doors by his sash, and before she'd had a chance to slam them, it sent a gout of flame straight toward them. With a roar of her own, the Dunmer shoved the heavy doors shut, and slammed the bar home just as the fire hit the other side. As those nearest the doors backed away, a sharp blast of hot air came rushing through the cracks in the jamb, followed by curling fingers of smoke. And then Irileth was shouting again, over the sound of flapping wings.

'All of you, grab bow and arrows! Get to the loops! We'll try to take the beast from the air!'

As Merrin hurried to the nearest narrow opening in the tower wall, she did her best to ignore the pounding of her heart, and the screaming questions in her head – like _how could she understand the dragon now?!_ This was no dream! And when she'd heard him speak in Helgen, the words had meant nothing to her. And yet—

' _Wake up,_ Merrin!'

Her thoughts were shattered by Farkas yelling at her from the next loop over; he'd snagged a bow from one of the racks on the wall, and his face was urgent as he pulled the string back, arrow nocked.

'It's headed our way!'

And so he was; the shadow flitting across the ground below was unmistakeable, and it took all her resolve not to cringe as she prepared to meet Alduin face to face again. To see those ruby coals lock onto her...

Only, it didn't happen. She nocked an arrow of her own, drew it back to her ear, and pointed it skyward just as the dragon came into view. And what she saw gave her such a shock that she gasped, throwing off her aim, and the arrow that slipped from her fingers went sailing off into the plain, hitting nothing but faraway ground.

This dragon _wasn't_ Alduin! Without the sun casting it into shadow, it was obvious at a glance. Far from the shimmering, iridescent midnight she remembered, _this_ dragon's scales were a dull sort of bronze – the skin of its wings a pale, mottled yellow. From far away she hadn't noticed, but up close, she could see that it was somewhat smaller than Alduin had been. Most telling of all, _this_ dragon's eyes didn't glow like a fire from Oblivion; they didn't glow at all!

In that moment, the significance didn't touch her; all she felt as she stared at that dragon was a rushing swell of relief.

Several arrows came whizzing out from the tower to meet the dragon, and as it beat its wings to move back out of range, it—he—spoke again, and cemented her realization.

'Zu'u los Mirmulnir – nid tuz lost pruzaan zu'u nu, jul!'

 _I am Mirmulnir – no weapon has bested me yet, humans!_

At the end of his declaration, the dragon's mouth yawed unnaturally wide, and an uncanny light came flickering up from his throat to illuminate his maw. Realizing what was happening, Merrin, Farkas, and the others on that side of the tower all threw themselves away from the windows, bracing against the walls.

And just in time – Mirmulnir let go a shrieking blast of yellow fire that came bursting through the arrow loops into the tower beyond, forcing some of those inside to go leaping back with a startled yell. One man wasn't quick enough and his Whiterun mantle caught up in flames, sending him to the floor with a panicked screech as several others rushed to put him out. The roar of the dragon was so loud that they could feel their eardrums throbbing; those with their backs pressed against the wall could actually feel the stone getting warm. As soon as the fire subsided, the dragon streaked up and away with a great beating of wings and a boom of laughter.

From there, the fight really began; archers manning every arrow loop, firing relentlessly at the dragon whenever they had a shot, and the dragon outside circling the tower, trying to roast them with gouts of flame and taunting them in his echoing bellow.

As the seconds dragged by like hours, the archers saw some success. Well-aimed arrows might pierce the underbelly, or put a small hole in one of the wings; enough of these holes would bring the dragon down. Irileth had destruction magic, and stood at her loop sending volley after volley of deadly ice spikes flying out to meet the dragon, red eyes narrowed in total concentration. For every spike that managed to land, she was rewarded with a bellow of pain from Mirmulnir.

But they were taking losses, too. One of the guards at Merrin's side was too slow in dodging a burst of flame – he caught the full force of it straight on, and the heat of the dragon's fire was such that it basically boiled him in his armor, splitting and charring his flesh in an instant, and he died falling back on one horrible scream. His death rattled their group, and before long, it happened to another man – this time on the opposite side of the tower. Most of their number kept on fighting, even as they trembled in fear and choked on the smell of scorched flesh; a few who had lost their courage entirely cowered under the twisting staircase, tears trailing their sweaty faces as they prayed to Kynareth, to Talos, to Akatosh.

For Merrin, the knowledge that this dragon wasn't Alduin had served to steel her nerves; her focus was razor sharp as she loosed her arrows, and although she felt fear as men fell around her, she had it under control.

But everyone's reflexes were tested when the dragon suddenly switched things up. Probably angry that he hadn't fried more of them, he boomed in frustration as he flew sharply upward.

'Hi mindol hi aal vonun nol dii?!'

 _You think you can hide from me?!_

They had only a moment's warning; a shadow falling over the light in the tower, a flash of color up at the ceiling. And then the dragon had aimed its snout into the open trapdoor on the roof, and sent a swirling maelstrom of flame down towards them.

Again, it was chaos. In a litany of panicked yelling, the lot of them sprinted away from the loops and toward the only refuge they had – the stairs. Men dove for cover, landing one atop the other, and it was a mercy that Demyen and the hopeless were already sheltered, because nobody was stopping for them. Merrin knew a moment of wild terror when she looked around for Farkas and couldn't see him – and then she felt her legs sweep out from under her when a hulking mass crashed into her as she ran. He yanked her effortlessly into his arms, barely breaking stride as he kept on sprinting, and yelled over one broad shoulder for the last few stragglers to _'haul ass!'_ as he ducked under the safety of the staircase.

All of them made it, with not a second to spare; it had to have been a miracle. As the fire slammed into the flagstone in front of them, the air seemed to vanish from the room, causing many of them to cough and choke. The heat was absolutely vicious, and several of them got seared and singed. But all of them survived; the two burnt corpses got an extra crisping laying where they'd fallen, but no new bodies dropped to join them.

Irileth had done more than just duck for cover – she was crouched and waiting to spring, with a wreath of frost magic coiled around her hands. The moment Mirmulnir's flames dissipated, she lunged out from the stairs and sent two bolts of ice hurtling with impressive accuracy up and through the trapdoor.

And they made contact. The dragon had drawn back a bit from the trapdoor, clearly not expecting such quick retaliation. One of the spikes carved a deep gash into his cheek, just missing his open mouth. The other lodged into the long column of his neck.

Mirmulnir reared back, shrieking in surprise and pain; high above them, a splash of blood came falling through the trapdoor to splatter on the flagstone. Several of the men around Irileth cheered, and somebody thumped her on the back. The dragon was far from finished, though; they could hear him thrashing and flapping his wings, and groaning loudly in a mix of pain and fury. High above them, he suddenly laughed – the most chilling sound of all. And then he spoke to them again, sounding deranged to Merrin's ears.

'Ah, Zu'u lost vodahmin! Hi joor wahl grik yuvon krif!'

 _Oh, I had forgotten! You mortals make such fine sport!_

He followed this statement with the very _last_ thing that any of them would expect: he flew away. Almost too quickly to believe, the sound of his enormous flapping wings faded away to nothing, and they were left to huddle beneath the stairs, staring at each other wild and wide-eyed. In the new profound silence, the loudest sound in the tower was ragged breath.

'Where did that bastard go? Damn him!' Irileth hissed, the first to speak. Her hands were already crackling with more magic, and she scowled blackly as she peered through the opening in the roof.

A guard who was trying to sooth Demyen and the others looked up to the housecarl and frowned with worry. 'Maybe he's headed for the city.'

She cursed. 'We can't let that happen! Get back to the loops! We need eyes on the lizard – and his eyes on us.'

Many of the men jumped to follow her order, sliding arrows from their quivers just in case the dragon would be in their sights. One brave man volunteered to sprint up to the top level, taking a big risk to slam the trapdoor closed, so the dragon couldn't rain fire down on them again.

Farkas had been holding her upper arm in an iron grip while they huddled under cover, and she hadn't even noticed. But now he looked at her with wary eyes and a clenched jaw, and nodded as he let her go to stand and join the others. Merrin stood up to follow, but she was struck by a sudden unease. She stared at the men peering through the stone slits, whispering to each other, and the feeling grew as a partial thought nagged at her.

 _Such fine sport. Such fine sport...?_

It made no sense – and then all at once, it did. Merrin's heart seemed to stop dead in her chest as she was hit by a sudden horrific intuition, and she took a lunging step forward with hands outstretched as she screamed at the men by the windows.

' _Get away from the windows! It's a trap! He—'_

Too late; she hadn't managed to finish her sentence, when out of nowhere there came such a resounding _crash_ that it felt as if the mountain itself had slammed into the tower. The building trembled down to its foundation, and a rain of stone plaster came falling down on them from the upper levels with a hiss. It all happened in the blink of an eye – long brown fingers with deadly talons came thrusting through one of the arrow loops, curling around the stone rim, and then a section of the wall was being torn away. It was a show of terrible strength, and the crash of the stone wall coming away was unbelievable.

The men had jumped away at the crash of the dragon landing on the tower-side, but they just hadn't accounted for the monster's wit. Quick as a striking snake, he thrust an arm through the hole he'd made and lashed out blindly for a victim – swiping like an enormous cat hunting mice.

His claws found purchase in the armor of a man who hadn't jumped quite far enough, and the sorry sod didn't even have time to scream before the dragon whipped his arm back, slamming the man into the stone and crushing him to death.

The dragon began to laugh, in the wake of the anguished cries in the tower. But then something happened that no one expected.

While most of the men in the tower had stumbled away from the intruding arm, one especially brave and quick-witted man had done the opposite. With a bellowing roar, the muscular nord ripped his sword from its sheath as he launched himself toward the hole in the wall – and then buried it nearly to the hilt in the dragon's vulnerable underarm. In a flash, he had both hands around the hilt, and Merrin watched from across the floor as he wrenched the sword down with brutal force, tearing a jagged path that severed the connective tissue of the wing.

If they'd thought the dragon loud before, it was _nothing_ to now. With an ear-splitting shriek of pain that rang in the peaks of the nearby mountains, he yanked his arm back out of the tower – sending the guard who'd landed the blow flying across the room in the process. The tower walls shook and trembled once more as Mirmulnir launched off of them, and his wailing tapered into a groan as he tried to take to the skies. There was a rustle of flapping, another roar of pain...and then the unmistakeable sound of something large crashing into the earth. A heart-beat of silence inside the tower; then a guard who'd sprinted to the nearest loop crowed triumphantly, and said the words they all wanted to hear:

' _It's grounded!'_

A wild, resounding cheer was his answer. Irileth had run to check on the guard who'd stabbed the dragon and been sent flying; she'd found him dazed and bleeding, but still alive, and pulled him to his feet. Looking fierce and determined, she nodded, and yelled to be heard above the cheering as she passed the man off to the nearest of his fellows.

'All of you, at arms! Spears and shields! Close in from the sides – ram-horn formation! Move out, move out!'

There was a thundering of boots on stone as everyone able rushed to follow orders. Spears were seized from their racks on the walls and passed from man to man, shields lobbed overhead and then caught. Even Farkas dropped his greatsword, and armed himself accordingly. As she stared at him he lifted his head and their eyes locked; she started out toward him, but then felt herself pulled back by the straps on her breastplate.

She whirled around snarling, and found it was Irileth who'd grabbed her.

'Hakonsdotter! You're a fine shot with that bow,' the dunmer woman shouted. 'You'll come with me, and we'll support the rest!'

Merrin would've argued, but there was no time – she just reached up to feel there were still arrows in her quiver, and ran after Irileth and her chosen city guards, careful to keep Farkas in her sights.

Mirmulnir had somewhat collected himself by the time the tower doors flew open, and the first of the group rushed out. A section of the plain had been torn up to dirt by the impact of his fall, and it was in this fresh rut that he stood, coiled to strike as he raised his head to regard them. Steam billowed from his nostrils; blood was seeping down his face, neck, and side. He was favoring his right arm, wing flat to his back. But it didn't make him look any less capable, and bright, lidded eyes the color of topaz narrowed to slits as he watched them come.

'Hi los kril – bahlaan hokoron.'

 _You are brave – worthy enemies._

They'd fought the dragon out of the air, but now they had to best him on the ground. And the serpent had no intention of cooperating.

The men tried to scramble into formation, with spears raised as they fell in like two funnels towards the dragon's sides. But he answered this with a sweeping gout of flame that shot out thirty paces, and just as quickly as they'd come, he had them diving for cover amidst the wreckage to avoid getting scorched. Eventually the flames abated, and the men emerged bravely for a second attempt – but again, were met with the same.

'Los bo'zan wah kos zos wey tol!'

 _It's going to take more than that!_

Their formation was the problem; ram-horn was too tight-knit – it gave the dragon two large, easy targets. Irileth saw this as Merrin did, and bellowed new orders accordingly.

' _Split up! Distract him!'_

The men scattered like leaves on the wind at her words, and started attacking more singularly. And when several rushed up at different angles nearly simultaneously, weapons ready and screaming challenge, the dragon had no choice but to engage.

Things progressed from there – but Merrin was just one of _many_ wishing that they would go more _smoothly_. From her place with Irileth on the ramparts, she could see the men darting up and away, taking jabs whenever they could, trying to be quick enough to dodge disaster. But while they'd landed several jabs, it wasn't nearly enough, and barely seemed to slow the dragon down. And the archers fared no better – though their small group loosed arrow after arrow with steady hands, most of them merely glanced off the scales that made up the dragon's sturdy armor. With no wings or underbelly exposed, making their mark seemed all but impossible.

Even Irileth, who was still relying on her frost magic, could barely land a blow. She sent two spikes flying on a perfect path to the flesh of the dragon's throat – and let out a vicious curse when he shifted in the nick of time, and both missiles exploded harmlessly off of the horny plate of his shoulder instead.

Watching them all, it was plain to see that they'd never faced anything like this before. It was only a matter of time before they made a mistake.

It started with a guard who got too close when he tried to stab the dragon in the neck. Mirmulnir reared up and out of his reach, and then before any of them could do a thing, he came down again in a blur of movement. With his mouth open wide and fangs flashing, he engulfed the entire upper half of the man's body; they could dimly hear the screaming as those fangs came clamping down. In the blink of an eye the dragon had lifted the man clear off the ground, and started to shake his head back and forth, like a sabre-cat did to a rabbit. Then he released his grip just as suddenly, and several of them watched in horror as the man flew a dozen feet, landing in a bloody heap on the rocks, broken and unmoving.

This lit a fire in a few of the men, and they screamed with fresh fury as they bore down wildly on the dragon. But Mirmulnir was ready for them. One man caught the full brunt of his sweeping, spiky tail; another was batted away like a fly by an outstretched hand with claws like meat-hooks. Both were sent sprawling through the air; one bashed his helmeted head off a rock, and the other landed on his own broken spear. Neither made any move to rise.

' _No!'_ Irileth snarled beside her through clenched teeth, and Merrin saw from the corner of her eye as the dunmer raised both hands to let loose another volley. But all she produced was a pathetic mist of frost—the elf had exhausted her magicka.

' _Damn_ it!' Not wasting a second, the housecarl shook her head as she ripped her steel sword from its sheath, and shouted to Merrin and the others around her.

'Keep it up! Make every arrow count!' And then with a fearless yell, she leapt straight off the ramparts to the ground several feet below, landed in a graceful crouch, and sprinted off to join in the melee.

Merrin cursed as she nocked a new arrow and drew it back. Her heart did a flip in her chest when she saw Farkas duck beneath the dragon's swiping arm, graceful as a dancer, to drag away a man who'd tripped over a shield and was in danger of being stepped on. She loosed that arrow with a sharp exhale, and that arrow burying itself to half-shaft in the meat of Mirmulnir's reaching arm was the only thing that stopped him from taking a swipe at Farkas' unarmored back. As the dragon ripped the arrow out with a scream, she cast her eyes skyward and grit her teeth, her thoughts pounding to the same desperate rhythm as her heart: _this isn't enough!_

It was at _that_ moment there came a sudden swell of noise to their left—the sound of many yelling voices—and an arrow came whizzing into her view to bury itself deep in Mirmulnir's neck. And when Merrin and several others turned their heads in bewilderment, none could believe their eyes.

Fully armored and with weapons drawn and raised, the Companions of Jorrvaskr were sprinting in a line toward them. Skjor and Aela, Torvar, Athis and Ria—even Vilkas! As they drew nearer and others saw them, a scattered cheer rose up among the fighting men.

' _The Companions!_ '

'Come on! Take heart!'

Merrin was speechless with surprise as she watched them roll in; Skjor was the first to see her up on the ramparts, and at the look on her face, his broke into a wild grin.

'Come now, newblood,' he roared above the din. 'You didn't think we'd let you have _all_ the glory, did you?!' He beat his sword against his shield, and laughed as he charged off toward the dragon with Vilkas right behind him.

'We're here for you, Merrin!' The next voice was Ria's, bright and strong, and her friend waved at her with her shield arm as she and Torvar ran into the fray.

The only one to falter was Athis, bringing up the rear. He skidded to a halt with his short swords dangling slack in his hands, and his ashen face was pale as he stared up at the thrashing dragon ahead. His mouth moved, but no one could hear his mumbled words.

'...Azura's arse...it's _really real!'_

'Come on, sister.' Aela had run up the ramparts, and she came to stand at Merrin's side as she called to her. The huntress was stoic and calm as she lifted her bow and nocked another arrow, and her green eyes narrowed as she locked on her prey.

'Let's show this brute what we're made of.'

It was a timely entrance, typical of the Companion's reputation for glory and skill, and one that would be spoken of for years to come. In that moment, Merrin had no idea what had compelled them to join in – but she was hardly about to complain. Drawing and loosing another arrow, Merrin hardened her focus to a sharp point, and questions fell to the wayside.

The sudden arrival of fresh new fighters had clearly caught the dragon off-guard. 'Nu wo meyz?!' He roared – _now who comes?!_ – and let out another shooting gout of flame in an effort to force back his many attackers. He reared on his hind legs with his good wing spread in challenge, and bellowed his words at the Companions. 'Rax wah ruus!' – _My teeth to your neck!_

Before long, it was starting to look as if the Companion's added force was what they'd needed to tip the scales. They were all of them ferocious fighters, and even though the dragon was vicious, he couldn't be looking everywhere at once. He was being forced to rear and dodge more, and wherever he wasn't looking, men with spears or one of the Companions was darting in to strike.

It was inexperience that caused the slip-up. Irileth had the dragon's attention from trying to slash into his side, when he noticed Ria coming up on his flank. Without any warning at all, he whipped his head around to face the Imperial, and Shouted. Ria was sent flying, and then landed on her back in the grass, winded and unable to scramble away. The dragon pivoted as Merrin watched in horror, faster than she would've thought possible, and bore down on her friend. In that instant, Torvar came diving to Ria's aid, war axe and shield both aloft – but the dragon's moving body blocked them both from view.

'Oh, gods!' Merrin's heart seemed to stop as she whipped her hand up to grab another arrow, feeling helpless and too far away. And then the sensation doubled when she grabbed at nothing but air – and realized her quiver was empty.

 _No!_ These people were her friends – they were here because of her! _S_ he had to do _something!_

Pitching her bow aside, Merrin took a page from Irileth's book and leapt straight from the ramparts to the ground below. She barely felt the pain jolting up her legs, and took off sprinting toward the chaos.

If a blow was coming to Ria and Torvar, she knew she was too far away to stop it. But she'd be _damned_ if she was going to just stand there and watch. When she spotted a discarded spear lying in the grass, she grabbed it, hardly breaking stride. Skjor came cutting swiftly into her view at the dragon's head, bellowing with his steel sword raised, and Merrin's heart thumped furiously as she pushed herself even harder. Men were rushing to attack the dragon's rear where he'd left himself open, but what if it wasn't enough?

It was the rear that _she_ was closest to, and she flitted through a gap between two men and drove her spear into the dragon's flank with all of the force of her panicked sprint.

 _Too_ much force; the spear buried itself deep into the meat of Mirmulnir's thigh, a solid blow that had him jerking and screaming. But her momentum had built up past where she could rein it, and the shaft of the spear burned the palms of her hands as she crashed directly into the dragon. Her head was rattled inside her helmet, which got knocked from her head by the dragon's jostling movement. The impact had her bouncing back, momentarily dazed, and her vision blurred around the edges.

It was likely the blow that made her slow to react. She heard the clattering of the men falling back, heard them calling to her...

'Fall back! _Look out!_ '

But too late. The dragon's tail came whipping around in a fast arc, and with the spear wrenched from her hands, Merrin was powerless to block it. She stumbled aside, and managed to miss the brunt of the blow – but the tail's sharp dorsal sliced her as it flicked by. It left a decent gash along her hairline—which would've been protected if she hadn't lost her helmet—and even as she dove for cover, she could feel the blood starting to ooze.

The pain of this fresh wound jolted her from her momentary fog, and Merrin cursed as she rolled to the side, away from the dragon, and swiped at the blood running into her left eye. She had no choice now but to draw her sword, glancing up as she did so – and felt a swell of relief at the sight of Ria and Torvar, running to join Vilkas at the dragon's side. A cold stab hit her as she realized she couldn't see Skjor—or _Farkas_ , for that matter. But she shoved it ruthlessly aside as she gave her eye another swipe; she had to focus.

Dodge, jump, slash, stab. The rhythm of battle settled in Merrin the way a blanket of snow settled over a mountain; steadily, bit by bit, and then in a heavy layer. The people fighting at her sides kept changing. A couple of guards – Athis, having found his courage – Vilkas, there and then gone – Irileth – Ria – Farkas, the sight of him weaving and dodging so gracefully beside her lifting her spirits. The dragon had taken to bellowing furiously as he fought with blind rage – with everything he had. Twice, her complete focus was the only thing that saved her from a sweeping raze of fire.

The balance tipped when the dragon did – quite literally. Mirmulnir had twisted to defend his injured side, when Farkas and several city guards all dropped their shields, double-handed their spears, and drove them into the side he _wasn't_ guarding. With a bellowing heave, the men toppled the dragon like a deep-rooted oak. He fell with a crash and a bellow of pain onto his wounded arm, and before he'd even fully settled, their group had fallen in, raining a hail of stabs into his newly exposed underbelly.

The dragon gave an awful moan that yanked on Merrin's heart-strings, his eyes blown wide as he stared down at them and lashed out futilely with arm and tail.

'Viik? Vonmindoraan!'

 _Defeat? Incomprehensible!_

His tone of voice was so out of place that it jarred Merrin, even in her focus – it was agonized, to be sure...but he sounded more surprised than bothered! It didn't make any sense!

And then something even stranger happened; the dragon started to _smoke._ As Merrin watched, curls of it started to waft up from the countless wounds they'd inflicted, making his entire body seem to steam. For a second, it went unnoticed, but then there was shouting from several of their group, and they more or less all scrambled back, fearing the new development.

Mirmulnir went suddenly rigid when he saw it, letting out a sharp blast of steaming air, and then he whipped his head to the side. He stared _straight_ at Merrin nearby, their gazes locking like a set of iron shackles, and she could plainly see total shock in those tawny orbs...fury. _Fear._ A voice she would normally recognize called out for her to move away, but she couldn't – she was rooted in place.

The sight of him lying there _wrenched_ at her heart. Smoking from what looked like a thousand wounds, streams of red trickling from his stomach to soak the ground, those marvelous wings in tatters...he was majesty, laid low and broken. She gasped at this sudden, unfamiliar pain. Mirmulnir spoke again, and his deep voice was shaky with unmistakeable fear.

'D...Dovahkiin? Nii nis kos! Niiiid!'

 _D...Dragonborn? It can't be! Noooo!_

The last word was a keening wail, filled with unbelievable despair, and then he let his great head fall with an audible thud to the plain. He glared at her, accusatory, and there was such fear and pain in those eyes that Merrin felt her own fill with tears. Her heart was absolutely thundering.

The blood was positively rushing from him now, and the fierce light in his eyes was starting to fade. With enormous effort, he dragged his free arm over until it was pointing in her direction, and levelled two taloned fingers straight at her.

'Zu'u los...gruthaan.'

They were his final words; hardly spoken louder than the wind. But despite the fact that she had barely heard him over the roar of blood in her ears, they pounded at her brain like a battering ram as those eyes rolled up into his head, and his entire body sagged.

 _I am...betrayed._

In that moment, the smoking increased dramatically; the body of Mirmulnir was engulfed in pale, misty grey. Again, some men behind her shouted, their voices full of fear and confusion.

'What is it? What's happening?!'

'Everybody, _stay back_ ,' Irileth barked.

' _Merrin!_ '

Farkas' voice was the last thing she heard, before it happened.

With a startling _woosh_ , the corpse in front of them burst into yellow flames, licking up toward the blue sky above. And as it did, a golden-white light started gathering, ethereal as it coalesced, whipping around the body with a sound like whistling wind. For a heartbeat, the maelstrom of wind and light crackled around what was left of Mirmulnir – and then with terrifying speed, it shot out in tendrils and went arcing straight into Merrin's chest.

More shouting – wild, alarmed, afraid. But Merrin barely heard it, this time. At the touch of that unworldly light, her entire body had gone rigid. A spherical whirl of it was surrounding her, engulfing her, blocking her from the view of all those around her, and she could see nothing beyond its brightness.

Then it truly entered her; heart, mind, _soul_ – and she saw _everything_.

All at once, her very essence was teeming with such an immense energy that it felt as if she would blast apart. Seething, roiling, white-hot and weightless; terrible and beautiful. Entirely overwhelming, and utterly fulfilling. Words in a language she'd never spoken were being chanted in her head – like blood pumping through a heart furiously pounding – and they were as familiar to her then as the sound of her own heartbeat. She was sharing the space in her mind, the air in her lungs with an entity that was separate, and yet undeniably _of_ her. It twined with her even as it railed against her, and Merrin saw things she'd never seen – knew truths she'd never known. She felt emotions that weren't hers, even as they burrowed into her.

Immense, wild joy – thunderous rage. Fierce pride, and stark terror. A howling, bleak longing. She let loose a ripping gasp when that bone-deep yearning was coupled with a sudden image of endless sky, the warmth of the sun on her back. Tears of grief and wonder spilled from her open, sightless eyes as all at once, this separate force became known to her – a part of her. For one fleeting instant that yawned outside of time, Merrin felt her spirit _soar_...her feet had never left the ground, and yet now, she knew how it felt to _fly_. Deep inside her, something that had never stirred before came bursting into life at that feeling.

' _Mirmulnir_ ,' she choked.

 _Kaal do Bormahu._

His voice came ringing through her mind, singing through her blood, stirring from her soul.

 _Chosen of Akatosh._

For a split second, they were in perfect harmony – knew one another completely. She didn't wonder at what he'd called her – didn't think to be bothered.

Then the energy shifted. All of the strength and joy and force that had been Mirmulnir was laid to rest inside of her – made a _part_ of her. For a second, all she could hear was the thrum of chanting voices, and all she could see was pure white light. And then _all_ of it – the light, the voices, the shared space, the _soar –_ all of it settled with a vacuous _pop_ and the world came crashing back in around her.

Somehow, she was still on her feet. But she felt so _small_. Her head was swimming, and her stomach was pitching so badly that she clutched it with both hands, sure she would be sick. Her vision was limned in fading white-gold light, and _everything_ was too loud; her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, and the whispering wind seemed to scream at her. When somebody finally spoke, she nearly jumped straight out of her skin.

'Merrin... _what_ –?'

It was Farkas who had spoken. As she whirled around with wild eyes to face him, she saw that he'd gone very pale, and he held his hands up in a gesture of peace, even as he stared at her in shock. She tried to answer him, but couldn't find her voice. Still clutching her stomach, she looked beyond him.

 _Everybody_ was staring at her. Irileth, the surviving guards, and all of the Companions present...everybody. Every face was full of shock, and then a number of other things, besides. The entire group was swathed in stunned silence. And then a guard took one halting step toward her – the guard from the market square, the one who'd torn Mirmulnir's wing – and pulled his helmet from his shaggy blonde head. His blue eyes were wide as he called out to her in a voice full of shaky disbelief.

'I don't believe it...the legends are _true_! You – you're Dragonborn!'

There it was; that word, spoken not by a roaring dragon, or within the confines of her mind. It had a rippling effect on the crowd, like a stone tossed into a pool, and the mutters and murmurs began.

'What?'

'No, impossible!'

It had an effect on Merrin, too – the roiling pressure in her stomach spiked, and so did the old panic in her chest. All at once, it came slamming back into her, so that her knees nearly buckled, and her eyes blew wide.

'No. I _can't_ be,' she gasped.

It just wasn't _possible_. In that consuming wave of anxiety, her thoughts were a seething spur of denial. A large part of her conscious was racing backward in time, years falling away as she stood there, to memories echoing in her mind – memories of stories she'd been told.

 _The Dragonborn – rare and peerless warriors stretching back into time immemorial, blessed in the eyes of Akatosh. They alone had the means to truly kill a dragon, to shatter its immortal coil and harness the power within for their own..._

'I didn't do anything,' she insisted, and hardly recognized her own voice.

'I know what I saw!' The guard was insistent, and his eyes beseeched her. 'You absorbed its soul! The dragon's soul went into you, just now!'

'It _didn't_ ,' she grated. 'There _has_ to be some explanation...' _For what just happened to me. Something real. Something sane._

' _Look_ behind you, woman!' He waved his arms wildly in her direction. 'You _had_ to have done – there's nothing _left!'_

Whirling on a jagged breath, Merrin turned to stare with wide eyes at the corpse of the dragon behind her – at all that was left of Mirmulnir. What she saw had her blanching, reeling.

Bones. No meat, no skin, no sinew...just a scattering of loose scales in the bloody dirt, and a skeleton, gleaming as clean and white as if it'd been bleached by time and the sun.

Impossible – impossible. And yet, right there in front of her! She clamped a hand over her mouth and hunched her shoulders, and the awful pressure in her chest and stomach mounted. Merrin's head spun; never in her life had she felt so disoriented. In the back of her mind, a voice whispered, words from a book she'd read years ago: _'A dragon's soul is all to him – his heart, his might...even his flesh. Without it, he will be nothing...'_

'Hold on.' Farkas again, this time sounding diplomatic. From where he stood among the others, he strode towards her now, and came to stand just behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder; looked down at her with worried eyes when she gave a heavy flinch. Lifting his gaze over the top of her head, he met the eye of the guard in front of them, and tried to reason with the man.

'I'll be the first to agree that something _weird_ just happened. But the Dragonborn isn't _real_ – they're just a story.'

'That's where you're wrong, friend.' The guard gave a stubborn jerk of his head, and put his hands on his hips as he looked up at Farkas. 'Don't you know your Temple dogma? Talos _himself_ was Dragonborn, way back when he was still Tiber Septim! _He_ had the dragon blood, too!'

Somewhere beside him, another guard scoffed, and shook his head.

'There _were_ no dragons back then, idiot! They've just come back _now_ , for the first time in...forever! How could Talos have dragon blood without any _dragons_ around?'

'Wait.' Another couple of guards had crept cautiously closer to where Merrin and Farkas stood by the remains. One of them was bald and graying, with a vivid scar slashing over his nose, and he was looking doubtful as he stared at her. He was speaking to the man who'd scoffed.

'He might have a point, Jorric. When I was a boy, my grand-dad told us stories about warriors born with dragon spirits. Sure, it was a long time ago, but we've got it recorded – real historical writs, done for Jarls and Emperors! Would they tell tales in _those?'_

'What a load of horseshit.'

This last came from Vilkas; striding angrily up between the guards, he planted himself beside the first who'd spoken, and all eyes fell to him as he crossed his arms over his chestplate. He was sporting a split lip, and a dark bruise bloomed along the side of his jaw. If he was reeling from his fight with a beast that he'd stubbornly insisted wasn't real, it didn't show; his narrowed eyes were hard as he regarded her, and his chin had an obstinate tilt.

'I don't know what this is, but it _isn't_ a fairy-story. It's simple – if she were really Dragonborn, then she'd be able to Shout. That's what all the stories say, no?'

His words had an obvious ring of challenge, and as soon as he'd said them, every pair of eyes re-fixed themselves onto the woman in question. Some of the expressions around her spoke clearly: _could she?_

But Merrin didn't see them; she was preoccupied. While the men around her had bickered back and forth, the pressure she'd initially taken for nausea had mounted into something altogether different. A powerful _swelling_ sensation had taken over her abdomen, her chest wall, her lungs. Panicked, she had tried to exclaim, and found that she was mute once more...then her ears had started to ring, the edges of her vision had blurred again. Worst of all, she'd started to hear those chanting voices again, steadily growing from whisper to shout, repeating one word over and over...

 _Force – force – force – FORCE –_

The pressure was mounting mercilessly, climbing steadily up her throat – it felt like she was going to explode!

By the time all eyes returned to her, she had clamped a hand over her mouth, and was bending slightly at the waist, brown eyes wide with fear. Several seconds passed like that, with everybody staring tense and silent. Vilkas was the first to speak, and he looked and sounded triumphant as he turned back to the guards.

'There, you see? No Shouting. She looks like she's about to throw—'

' _FUS!'_

The pressure in Merrin burst free at that moment in a clapping boom of sound that drowned out every other noise. A shock-wave came barrelling out of her mouth with so much _force_ that the small group of men who'd collected in front of her were _bowled_ over by it, Vilkas included; swept right off of their feet and sent tumbling in the dirt. She herself went flying backwards, slamming into Farkas' unarmored chest. He stumbled, and the only thing keeping her from falling to the ground was his thick arm circling her waist. The sound of her amplified voice went echoing in waves out over the plain beyond them, persistent before it faded to nothing.

There was a heartbeat of shocked silence in the clearing; the only thought Merrin had room for was one of relief, at the pressure having left her. And then—

'The Thu'um! _She uses the Thu'um!'_

The guard who'd insisted she was Dragonborn had scrambled to his knees in the grass, and his voice was awe-struck as he shouted those words, his dirty face radiant as he stared at her. He grinned hugely, not seeming to care that he'd just been sent sprawling, and thrust a hand out toward her.

'She bears the blood of Akatosh!'

The group around her had stood stunned and frozen – now, as Merrin's breath caught in her throat, they stirred back to life. Farkas was the first, gingerly sliding his arm from her waist as he looked down at her dark, tousled head.

'Ysmir's beard, Mer...'

Across to their right, Athis whistled, and swore softly in dunmeris. Gaping beside him, Torvar shook his head, and chimed in very eloquently:

'...Holy _shit!'_

The guard who'd called her Dragonborn was looking triumphant as he hauled himself from the dirt; since he'd spoken, a steady murmur had broken out between the rest of the guard – now they were buzzing like a hive. It was _one_ thing to hear wild claims – another thing entirely to see proof of them. And what they'd all just witnessed wasn't something to be explained away. Over the swell of talk, individuals started to make themselves heard.

'By the gods, he's right!'

'How can this be? A Dragonborn!'

'She really used the Voice just now! Incredible!'

Pale faces were turning to look at her, and as she stared back, she saw fear, shock...wonder...joy. The Companions stood among them, and the faces of her friends didn't look much different.

The last face she landed on belonged to Vilkas – and _there_ was something different. While the guards she'd blown over had all clambered to their feet, he remained sitting in the dirt where he'd landed. He was staring right at her, but his gaze was oddly shuttered, and his face was cold and impassive as he looked at her. It was the kind of look one would give to a stranger that they had no desire to meet – closed off completely. As they stared, a guard next to Vilkas reached down a hand, offering to help him gain his feet. But Vilkas' upper lip curled, and he batted the hand away with a sneer, his eyes never leaving hers. Something about the muted contempt in them had Merrin bristling, and she looked away fighting a sneer of her own.

It had all happened in a matter of moments; in a couple more, the weight of reality was crashing back in. As the group of people around her kept talking, Merrin's thoughts turned inward.

She was absolutely reeling. What she knew to be impossible was out of line with what she'd just seen – with what she'd just _done_. Accepting the words being pushed onto her felt ludicrous, _ridiculous_...but there was no denying thefacts.

She had heard another language being chanted inside her head. She had understood Mirmulnir as they fought, and had... _merged_ with him somehow, as he died. And she had just Shouted – something _no one_ could do, without years of dedicated training.

No one...save for a _single_ exception, according to the legends.

Merrin was pulled from her thoughts with a shudder when one guard called out louder than the rest, across the clearing to the woman who'd gathered them.

'What do _you_ make of this, Irileth? You're bein' awfully quiet.'

The Dunmer woman had strode up to the remains of the dragon behind them, sharp eyes roving over the bones. Now she turned to face the group, and those same eyes flashed as she gave a snort, and raked a hand through her dark red hair.

'What do _I_ think? I think there's little point in standing here, flapping your gums about things you don't understand. Behind us is a dead dragon.' She jabbed one dark, slender hand toward the bones, and a triumphant fire lit her garnet eyes.

' _That_ is something I fully understand. Now we _know_ we can kill them. And in front of us...' The elf's gaze flicked now to Merrin, and her expression went appraising.

'Is a mystery. _Dragonborn_ or no...' – this part said in a skeptical tone – 'anyone who can take down a dragon is good enough for me. The rest is hardly my concern.'

'Aw, _come on_ , Irileth! How can you—'

'And it is _hardly_ any of yours, either,' she cut over him firmly; just like that, she was all business again, and raised her voice commandingly to address the entire group.

'We've stood around gawping long enough! Guards, I want our dead counted and gathered, and our wounded taken up to Kynareth's temple. Your Captain will need to be informed as to what happened here, and the same man who delivers _that_ message will run to the hall of the dead and warn Arkay's priests of the bodies incoming. When you're finished, the lot of you can head to the barracks – get some rest. A fresh detail will be sent out to start the clean-up.'

Several guards gave a _'yes, Ser!'_ and broke away to follow her orders; Merrin could feel the weight of their stares as many of them craned for one last look, and heard their excited whispering before they moved out of earshot. Irileth coolly ignored them, and levelled her stare instead on the Companions gathered round.

'Of course, the Companions can do as they please,' she went on briskly. 'Your aid would be welcomed here, but if you wish to return to Whiterun immediately, it's no matter. I must take my leave presently – Jarl Balgruuf awaits my report.'

And then the housecarl turned to look carefully at Merrin; her expression was wary as she regarded her.

'I think _you'd_ better come with me...the Jarl will likely wish to speak with you, when he hears of...what happened.'

What could she say? Merrin was still very much in shock. Looking uncertainly around, her eyes caught on Aela, reaching out to a limping Skjor, and then on Ria, who seemed blessedly unharmed. Her friend's dark eyes were full of worry as they met her own, and Ria mouthed something across the clearing that Merrin couldn't make out. _What?_ After a second, Merrin dragged her eyes back to Irileth's and nodded, once.

'Fine.'

The gathering scattered; feeling clumsy and drained, Merrin followed Irileth's lead as she turned from the dragon and the damaged tower and started back over the plain. She was bone tired, now—and felt an unspeakable rush of gratitude when a sudden shadow fell over her, and she felt Farkas wrap an arm around her, taking some of her weight. In his other hand, he was holding her fallen helmet. She looked up at him wordlessly, but her expression must have said enough, because he nodded and shot her a reassuring smile.

'I'm sticking with _you_.'

'...Thanks.'

They were surpassed by a single guard who'd been chosen as messenger, as the three of them made their way to the city; the afternoon sun was starting to set now, and their shadows were stretching unnaturally long on a slant ahead of them, rippling over the grass. Their progress was somewhat slow. Every step sent a jolt through her aching legs – her palms were raw and burning from the spear shaft. The cut on her forehead was throbbing. Farkas wasn't unscathed, either; he'd come out remarkably well, but the arm that wasn't around _her_ had a long scratch, raw and red and crusted in blood.

When they were most of the way there, it happened.

One second, there'd been nothing but breeze, and the sound of their trudging footsteps. The next had the very air around them being split by a sound so _loud_ that the earth beneath their feet rumbled with it! Coming from the sky, from the mountain, across the plain, rolling and crashing like the peak of a storm – a chorus of _voices_ , too loud to be believed, calling out a single word:

' _DOVAHKIIN!'_

' _Woah!'_ Farkas let out a startled oath as the three of them stumbled to a halt, wide eyes flitting across the sky, searching for the cause of the impossible sound. In the distance ahead, there was another spat of panicked whinnies from the horses in Whiterun's stable. All the muscles in Merrin's abdomen clenched, and she gritted her teeth as she braced for something – anything.

But nothing else came. The voices faded to nothing, the rumbling stopped, and aside from the horses and their shouting grooms, quiet returned to the plain. Irileth was the first to move – shooting them a look that seemed to say ' _what now?'_ – and urged them to keep on walking. The stablemaster's son called out to them as they passed, but Irileth shouted curtly back that they were on Jarl's business and couldn't stop.

Walking through the city gates and down the main street felt like walking through a carnival on stilts. The loudest of the dragon's screams had carried into the city ahead of them – even if they hadn't, there was still the booming call from the skies. People had come spilling out of their homes, halted the day's activity, and now as Irileth led Merrin and Farkas through the Plains district, people stared from every threshold, or stood waiting in the streets. They looked scared, confused; as their little group passed, more than a few men and women called after them, asking questions.

'What _was_ that? What's going on?!'

'Is there _really_ a dragon?!'

'What _happened_ out there? Who was that, shouting?'

Irileth looked increasingly harried as they pressed on; in a bark that held little reassurance, she told the citizens to return to their work – that the situation was handled, and to let the Jarl and the city guard do their jobs in peace. Bureaucracy had never been the woman's strong suit, and she had to work to leash her fraying nerves as she marched them through the market square.

The guards at the front doors of Dragonsreach went springing aside when they came into view; one look at Irileth's face had them shoving the heavy oak open wide.

The first person they saw on the other side was Balgruuf's steward, Proventus; he was standing in the hall's vestibule, and as soon as he saw them he came rushing forward with his brown eyes wide and his thin lips working.

'Thank the Eight, you're finally back! He's been waiting for you!'

' _Thank_ you, Proventus,' Irileth snapped, loud and sarcastic. 'I _never_ would've guessed!' She brushed past the Imperial with a glare and Merrin and Farkas followed, leaving the wiry man to hurry behind them, huffing and looking sour.

The Jarl had been pacing in front of his throne, both hands clasped behind his back. To the left of the throne stood his mage, Farengar, and the burly blond warrior in well-worn scale that had to be a brother or cousin. They'd been looking to Balgruuf, but the second Irileth's angry voice marked her arrival, all three men had peered keenly straight ahead. Balgruuf stopped in his tracks, and his hands came unclasped as he reached out to them.

'You've returned.' His voice was strained, and he clawed both hands through his dark blonde mane before he fixed his housecarl with steely blue eyes. 'I've been waiting for word. What have you to report?'

Irileth didn't stand on ceremony; rather than take to one knee before him, she simply nodded and straightened her shoulders, red hair and eyes glinting in the firelight.

'Your guard spoke true, Balgruuf. There really _was_ a dragon. It attacked the watchtower.'

Balgruuf cursed. 'What happened? What of my men? And the dragon?'

'We arrived on the scene to find wreckage and casualties. While we were searching for survivors, the dragon returned and attacked again.' She spoke swiftly, dispassionately.

'The tower is heavily damaged, but reparable. We lost several men, total count pending. And we have several wounded. The dragon is dead.'

The Jarl had opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by Farengar, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

'Dead? You must tell us more! What did the dragon _look_ like? What could it _do?_ Have you disturbed the remains? I need to assemble a team at once, and go down to collect—'

'That's _enough_ , Farengar!' Balgruuf had to shout over his excited mage, and scowled. 'Still yourself! Now is no time for your academics.' He seemed to sag as he dragged a hand wearing several rings over his weathered face, and re-settled his attention on Irileth.

'Have the Kynareth priestesses been made aware? The Hall of the Dead?'

'They have.' Irileth nodded. 'And Commander Caius as well. A messenger was chosen to come in ahead of us. As soon as the wounded have been carted to the Temple, a fresh round of men will be heading out to start clean-up.'

'Well done. I—'

'Jarl Balgruuf...if I could interject?'

This came from Proventus Avenicci; the man had retaken his place beside the throne, and now he stared at them with lips tightly pursed, and hands clamped together. When the Jarl turned around to look at him darkly, he hurried on in a deferential tone.

'I beg your pardon, Jarl, but something is amiss! None of what your competent housecarl had told us explains the rumbling shout we heard, before they arrived! Surely, it _must've_ had something to do with this dragon, no?'

Merrin stiffened at those words, but no one noticed. Balgruuf's armor-clad relation turned to scowl at Proventus, and his thickly-accented voice was raised in agitation when he spoke.

'I already _told_ my brother where the shouting came from, man! Weren't you listening?'

Proventus blinked, frowning. 'Well, I hardly—'

'My Jarl.' Irileth had taken another step forward, and her back was ram-rod straight as she cut over Proventus.

'...There's more to report.'

Balgruuf held up a hand toward Proventus and his brother, and frowned with a furrowed brow at the Dunmer.

'More? What have you?'

The elven woman didn't sound quite so neutral as before – her tone was dry, and her auburn brows quirked. Staring at her Jarl, she grimaced.

'As the dragon died, it started to smoke, and then it burst into some kind of flame. A golden light came out from the body and then...it went shooting into the woman behind me.' She turned her head to glance at Merrin from the corner of her eye, and then took a single step to the side, revealing her to the men of the court.

'Merrin Hakonsdotter – the woman who's aid you requested, for her presence at Helgen. She absorbed the light somehow, and then...well ser, I know it sounds outlandish, but she seems to have Shouted. The men who were there are now claiming she is...Dragonborn.' She hesitated on the last word, as if she found the conjecture distasteful, and Merrin's stomach gave another lurch as it pervaded the silent throne room.

All four men had levelled rapt focus on her the moment Irileth let her into view; four sets of eyes had widened as the Dunmer spoke. Now Balgruuf and Farengar had opened their mouths to speak – but the Jarl's brother beat them both to it. He took a surging step toward her, and his rough-hewn face was alight with joy, his eyes full of wonder.

'By the Eight Divines – I _knew_ it!' he crowed. His features were slashed by crimson warpaint, and the slashes warped as he grinned from ear to ear.

'I was right! To think I would have the _honor_ of it happening in _my_ life-time!'

'Hrongar, calm yourself!' Proventus quipped suddenly. He looked derisively at the much bigger man, and waved his arms. 'Now is no time for this Nord nonsense!'

The Jarl's brother drew up short – turned to stare at the steward. His eyes bulged in shocked insult, his cheeks grew swiftly red, and he balled his fists as he took a lurching step towards Proventus.

'Nord – Nord _nonsense?!'_ He growled. 'How _dare_ you, you puffed up, ignorant little—'

' _Hrongar!_ ' Balgruuf shouted his brother's name, and he whipped his head around to fix him with a harsh, steely glare.

'You heard him,' Hrongar shouted back. 'He's insulting our ancient traditions! He is unworthy of witnessing this!'

'Hrongar, _peace_ ,' Balgruuf said firmly. 'Don't be so hard on Avenicci. Our traditions are not his own. Only fools never doubt.'

'I meant no offense, of course,' Proventus mumbled; he'd gone pale and splotchy, and he avoided Hrongar's eyes as he talked. 'It's just...just so hard to believe!'

Hrongar looked like he had plenty more to say – instead, he just huffed.

After Irileth's declaration, the Jarl had taken several steps back, until his throne was just behind him. Now in the silence, he sank down onto it, and gripped the armrests tightly. His blue eyes latched onto Irileth, then Farkas – then landed squarely on Merrin.

'Proventus, let Hrongar talk.' He sighed.

His steward scowled; his brother smirked. Taking a few steps forward, Hrongar planted himself in front of Merrin, and crossed his rippling arms over his chest. His dark blue gaze was serious, as if he were drinking her in. When he spoke, his voice held a trace of his earlier excitement.

'My lady, do you know the great honor you've been given?'

It was the first time since she'd entered the throne room that someone had spoken directly _to_ her, and not just _about_ her. Normally it would make her waspish – but this time, she'd been grateful. She felt as if she were in a dream – somebody else's dream – and words were hard to come by. After a long beat of silence, Merrin just shrugged at him helplessly; she'd let him come to his point on his own.

Hrongar clearly didn't mind; his eyes re-lit with enthusiasm, and his voice boomed toward the rafters.

'That thundering sound you heard out on the plain – it was the Thu'um of the Greybeards, calling you to High Hrothgar!'

Shock stabbed through her at these words like a pike through the chest. She gaped at him, open-mouthed, and finally found her voice.

'The...Greybeards?'

He was grinning again, and didn't seem to notice her going pale.

'It's amazing! History in the making! This hasn't happened in centuries – not since they called to Tiber Septim himself, when he was still Talos of Atmora!'

Farengar stepped forward then, lowering his hood, and his pale eyes flickered in the light of the fire as he stared at her shrewdly.

'When the light and fire cleared away, did anything remain of the dragon?' He asked quietly.

'Only bones,' she replied with difficulty.

The mage whistled, nodded.

'Then there's little doubt in my mind - you absorbed its soul. Only the Dragonborn could do as much.'

It was like a hammer driving home a nail; she could do nothing to argue their claims, and her shoulders slumped beneath the weight. She didn't want to bear their scrutiny – didn't want to be floundering in the face of the impossible. She met his curious gaze, but had no words to answer him with.

'So my brother _was_ right.'

Balgruuf spoke now, softly. Amazement shone from his weary face, and his deep blue eyes were awed as he slowly shook his head.

'When the din came down, Hrongar _swore_ that it was a summons from High Hrothgar. I didn't believe him – when have the monks ever troubled themselves with the world beneath the clouds? What could suffice to grab their attention? But now...' His soft voice trailed off for a moment, and the only sound in the room was of flickering fire.

'Something about your fight with that dragon made them notice that you exist,' he continued. 'They heard your Thu'um, and have called you to them with their own.'

'So you _believe_ this woman to be Dragonborn, Balgruuf?' This was Irileth's question; her lips were pursed as she stared at her Jarl, and her voice had an unmaskable twinge of incredulity.

Balgruuf's full mouth turned up in a smirk as he cast his eyes to his friend and housecarl. 'I know you've always been a skeptic, Irileth. Normally, so am I.' His eyes flicked back to Merrin, and he gestured to her with one large hand.

'But if the Greybeards think she's Dragonborn, who are we to argue?'

Irileth let out a tiny _tsk_ and crossed her arms, but said no more. Balgruuf leaned forward on his throne, and spoke to Merrin again. He noted the woman's unhealthy color as he did so, and frowned.

'This is out of my hands, kinsman. A summons from the Greybeards cannot go unanswered. You should take some rest to restore yourself, and then you must make haste to Ivarstead – summit the path to their monastery.' At the look on her face, his softened, and his next words were spoken kindly, in an attempt to reassure her.

'Take heart. If you really _are_ Dragonborn, the Greybeards will know it. They'll be able to help you hone your gifts – and the Thu'um _is_ a gift. Of that, there's no doubt.'

Merrin had no response for him – her thoughts were awhirl, and her heart was pounding in her chest. All she managed was a nod.

'Lady Dragonborn.' Hrongar came walking up to Merrin now, stopping directly in front of her, and he beat his fist against his chestplate before falling to one knee, head bowed before her.

'Have you any trusted allies to accompany you, on your journey to High Hrothgar?' He sounded proud, and more than a little reverent.

'If not, it would be my _great_ honor to offer you my services, in seeing you up the mountain.'

Before she could do more than blink, Farkas put a hand on her shoulder, and said his first words since entering the city.

'She's with the Companions, _milord_. She has plenty of 'trusted allies' to choose from.' There was an unfriendly edge to his normally mellow voice, and he stared down at the Jarl's brother with drawn brows and a frown. Even in her daze, something about it warmed Merrin.

'Of course.' Reluctantly, Hrongar got back to his feet, and nodded as he backed away from her. 'I didn't mean to impose.' His sturdy jaw was set, and his eyes held a glimmer of disappointment as he looked at them.

'Jarl Balgruuf.' Farkas took a step forward so that he stood right beside her, and then looked at the Jarl as he addressed him directly.

'Merrin has been through a lot. If she has a journey ahead of her, then she needs to rest. If there's nothing more, could we take our leave for Jorrvaskr?'

Merrin looked up at him then and shot him a grateful smile. Ahead of them, the Jarl cleared his throat.

'Of course. There's just one more matter to tend to.'

Balgruuf had settled back in his throne as he'd spoken, eyes narrowing in thought; now one hand reached up to stroke his goatee, and his lips pursed as he looked at her shrewdly.

'Since your arrival in Whiterun, you've been nothing but a great boon to my city. I feel that, all things considered, your selfless deeds call for reward.'

Merrin stared at the blonde man blankly, uncomprehending. Balgruuf stopped stroking his beard, and tipped his chin as he regarded her, steepling his hands in front of him.

'I'd like to make you a Thane of Whiterun, and offer you a place in my court.'

The words were spoken mildly, but they had a sharp effect. Merrin heard none of the tittering surprise that his statement made in the throne room – _couldn't_ hear it, over the sudden rush of blood in her own ears. Anger was swelling in Merrin's gut, over the sentence ringing in her head:

 _He believes that you're Dragonborn, and now he wants to use that to his advantage._

From the moment she'd left the dragon's corpse behind, she'd had trouble finding her voice – now this pushed her over the edge, and words came spilling from her, hard and flat. She shook out from under Farkas' hand, and took a step toward the Jarl.

'I don't think so.'

These words caused more stir than the Jarl's had. Irileth turned to stare at her with her red eyes wide; beside the throne, Proventus actually _gasped_. Hrongar looked as if his ears had deceived him as he turned to her.

'You would deny the honor of Balgruuf's Thanehood?'

'Honor be _damned_ ,' she snapped, scowling. 'It isn't _about_ the honor. I've just had the shock of my life, as I'm sure you could imagine, _if_ you tried! I feel like I'm about to collapse.' She turned blazing amber eyes onto Balgruuf on his throne.

'Now is _hardly_ the time to offer me Thanehood! So if you need my answer now, then the answer is _no_.'

The Jarl's face had crumpled in annoyed confusion – when was the last time anyone had denied him like this? Spoken to him this way? Slowly, he leaned forward again, brows furrowed.

'...And if I were willing to _wait_ on your answer?'

Merrin blew out an impatient breath.

'Then it's something we _might_ discuss, when I return from this trip I now _must_ you'll forgive me that I make you no promises, Jarl or no.' She straightened up to her full height – towering over Irileth, nearly of a height with Hrongar – and stared Balgruuf down.

'Until then, I'm leaving. I have preparations to make for this trip. And I need to rest.'

Balgruuf's mouth had fallen slightly open, and in the silence that followed her words, he closed it with a snap.

'Very well. I give you my leave.'

He rose from his throne and approached her, his brocade robes whispering as he moved, and extended a hand to her. Reluctantly, Merrin took it with her own – she bent at the knee and bowed her head, as was custom. But only slightly. She tried to withdraw her hand after, but Balgruuf held it fast, and then grabbed it with the other hand as well.

'I envy you, you know. I made the pilgrimage once, in my youth, and climbed the 7,000 steps to see the monastery. It is a...peaceful place, suited to quiet reflection. Would that I could gaze out from those peaks again...' His voice and eyes were both wistful, and there was something forlorn about his expression. Then he seemed to catch himself, and shook his head.

'But no matter.' He let her hand slip from his own, and stepped away as he clasped them behind him.

'Go. Take your rest. And then make your way to High Hrothgar, and see what the Greybeards make of you.'

Merrin nodded stiffly and turned to leave, and Farkas did the same beside her. They had only taken one step, however, when a voice called out from behind them.

'Wait!'

It was Farengar – as Merrin whirled with gritted teeth toward the platform, the robed wizard came hurrying forward, hands outstretched and eyes beseeching.

Balgruuf _tsked_. 'Farengar, what—'

'My Jarl, I beg your pardon.' Farengar cast swift eyes to the Jarl, and then they flitted back to Merrin, keen and eager.

'Milady, I _know_ you've had a trying day, and I don't doubt that you're keen on some respite. But you must understand the _importance_ of what's just happened! If you truly _are_ Dragonborn, you are the first such individual to grace our province since the end of the Septim Dynasty!'

'Your _point_ , Farengar,' Balgruuf groaned.

'Begging your pardon, all! It's just that we've come so _far_ since the Third Era in terms of what we can _know_ about where flesh and magic combine.' His eyes were shining, and he looked bright and hopeful as he took another step toward her.

'I wonder if you would be so gracious, before you go, to sit for a small bout of...testing? Nothing too invasive, mind you! Just something to start—'

The Jarl didn't even have to say anything; the look that came onto the woman's face was so violent that it had the mage scrambling back, with hands held in front of him, and stammering over his words.

'O-or not! I can see I was too hasty – some rest would be far m-more important, certainly!'

* * *

They hadn't gone far down the stone steps from Dragonsreach when Farkas gave her a gentle nudge, and looked down at her with concern.

'Hey, how're you holding up? What are you thinking?'

Merrin sighed as she looked up at him, and didn't try to hide the emotions she knew were there on her face. She didn't want to lie – not to him.

'Honestly? It's too much at once. I think I'm going numb.'

He made a sympathetic clucking sound with his tongue, and shook his head.

'I don't blame you. I can't even imagine...'

As they came to the stairs that would lead them into Jorrvaskr, he grabbed her gently by the arm, and turned her slowly to face him.

'Mer...I just want you to know that...this doesn't change anything, with us.' His eyes were earnest as they met hers, and endlessly blue. His expression was serious, like he willed her to believe him, and he gave her bicep a reassuring squeeze as he spoke to her almost bashfully.

'I know we haven't known each other long, but you're my friend. You matter to me. And no matter if you _are_ Dragonborn – I accept you. Okay?'

A lump had risen to lodge in her throat, and Merrin had to swallow hard before she could even nod at him. She wanted to give him another hard hug, but worried she'd start to cry; in the end she settled for a hand on his arm, and a wavering smile.

'Thank you, Farkas. That means a lot.'

He grinned back, and then nudged her again as they turned to mount the stairs.

'Y'know, it might be better than just accepting.' He chuckled. 'You being Dragonborn would be pretty bad-ass.'

She sighed, but her smile widened. 'One thing at a time. For now, it's _'if'_.'

They pushed their way through the doors to the meadhall – and were met with utter silence. There wasn't a soul to be seen anywhere on the top floor, and the fire had burned low in the hearth, casting the room into shadow. Something about it made Merrin uneasy, and the two exchanged glances as the doors closed behind them.

'Huh.' He sounded puzzled; his dark brow furrowed. 'Maybe the others aren't back yet?'

Her rucksack was sitting right where she'd dropped it, when Irileth called her away; he picked it up now in an absent-minded way, and slung it over his shoulder as he looked down at Merrin.

'No big deal. Let's get you and your stuff down into your room, and get you out of your armor.'

Merrin nodded gratefully, and the two of them started across the long room.

'You could maybe take a bath, if you wanted? Once I dump your stuff, I could risk life and limb, and sneak you something from Tilma's pantry.' He was smiling again. 'You need something to eat, after a day like _this_.'

She actually snorted a laugh, and warmth bloomed through Merrin's chest as she looked up to smile at him. His casual attitude was exactly what she needed – a scrap of normalcy, in a sea of insanity.

'Thanks, Farkas. I really appreciate your help.'

If it wasn't so dim and shadowy, she would've sworn he blushed; he quickly averted his eyes, and shook his head.

'Ah, it's nothing.'

But the second they opened the heavy doors to the lower hall, all thoughts of a bath or sneaking food were abruptly forgotten.

Yelling; how they hadn't heard it from the floor above, Merrin had no idea. The sound of several raised, angry voices were coming from all the way down the hall – behind the closed doors of Kodlak's study.

And they'd found most of the other newbloods, too. Part-way down the hall, Ria, Athis and Torvar stood huddled together, eavesdropping on the argument seething in the study. Their heads had all whipped around at the sound of the doors to the mead hall opening; now they gawked at Merrin and Farkas, looking equal parts guilty and alarmed.

Ria came rushing instantly forward with hands outstretched, and took Merrin's hands into her own when she reached her. Her dark brown eyes were full of worry, and a flush was staining the deep tan of her cheeks.

'Merrin,' she said urgently, 'you shouldn't—'

But the Imperial woman was drowned out by the words being yelled in the study, and Merrin couldn't help but hear them. Words in Vilkas' voice.

'She should be made to _leave Jorrvaskr_ – _plain and simple!_ First she goes running off, and now she's apparently the _Dragonborn?_ It's absurd! And if it's _true_ , then she's useless to us!'

The last was punctuated with a bang – a fist on wood.

'What _good_ is a person who's never _around_?! She'll never be a _true_ Companion!'

That was it; Merrin slipped from her friend's clinging grasp, and ignored it when Ria called her name. She started storming down the hall toward the study, and Torvar and Athis jumped out of her way to avoid getting trampled. She barely even noticed the sound of Farkas hurrying after her.

'Vilkas, get ahold of yourself!' This was Skjor – his voice biting and derisive.

'Who could _blame_ her, if she decided to take off after this? Being a Companion is _nothing_ , next to being the Dragonborn! How thin is one woman meant to spread herself?!'

'It should _still_ be _her_ choice.'

Aela, sounding harsh and stony. Her distinctive voice overlapped Skjor's, and the older man fell silent.

'Last I checked, we don't _throw_ people from our hall without a _damn_ good reason.'

'She's a terrible influence on my brother,' Vilkas snarled. 'You saw it! One look from her, and he went charging off to fight a _dragon_ without any gods-damned _armor_. I won't—'

Merrin had reached the study doors, and shoved them open with a bang that cut through his sentence.

She was completely overwrought. It was all too much for one person, one day, and now he had pushed her over the edge. As she flung herself into the room, she barely registered anyone else in it – they were colored outlines turning toward her, as she stalked toward Vilkas.

'You _son of a bitch!'_

She pulled up short maybe two paces from him – both her hands were shaking and fisted at her sides. Her voice was trembling and graceless, her control in tatters, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

'You've had a problem with me since the day I walked through the _gods-damned door! Why? How?!_ You don't even _know_ me!'

Aela tried to reach a hand for Merrin's shoulder, then. But Merrin jerked away from her, and the huntress pulled it back.

'And now you're trying to get me _kicked out?_ For _what_ – helping protect the city? Being the Dragonborn?' She snarled, chest heaving. 'Or is it just because you don't _like_ me?!'

Vilkas' nostrils had flared at her words – his steely eyes were sparking with temper, and _his_ fists were clenched at _his_ sides. Seeing it just fuelled her fury.

'It doesn't matter – _you_ don't matter!' she shouted. 'I'll be _damned_ if I'm gonna leave, because some _arrogant bastard_ says I should! I'm not—'

She was cut short by Kodlak.

'Merrin – Merrin, _listen to me_ _!'_

For the first time since she'd known the man, the Harbinger had shouted – a booming shout, that echoed through the room, and had her falling silent. He'd risen from his chair with a groan, and now he placed himself between her and Vilkas, storm-grey eyes entreating her.

' _No one_ is making you leave. _Know_ that.'

Merrin spluttered, and jabbed a hand at Vilkas behind him. 'But _he_ said—'

' _Vilkas_ is being led by his emotions,' Kodlak said firmly, overriding her again. 'And not his true judgment. We are _all_ shaken, by what's happened today. My girl, please listen to me.'

His tone had gentled as he'd spoken, and he'd ended his sentence with his usual softness.

'We're not turning you out – you may stay if you wish. But I wanted to give you _time_ to think it over; it's a _big_ decision you need to make. I want you to be sure of yourself.'

She knew he was trying to support her. She knew – but she couldn't accept it then, couldn't let it soften her, or she was going to lose it. She stiffened her spine and clenched her hands so hard that the nails bit into the raw, bloody palms.

'I don't _need_ any time,' she snapped. 'I've already decided! Some of you would _love_ it if I left, I know—' This part was aimed at Vilkas, over Kodlak's shoulder. 'But I'm not _going_ anywhere!'

It was the truth. The burning of Helgen had severed her from the life she'd known, and built. It had hit her hard. Over the past several weeks, though, she'd begun to find something _new_ ; Jorrvaskr had given her focus, purpose...a sense of belonging. It hadn't for a second occurred to her to give that up, at any point. It may have only been a few weeks, and she was still waiting for the other boot to drop...but Dragonborn or no, with the Companions was where she wanted to stay.

But she'd bite off her own tongue before she said any of that right _now_. She threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin, and her tone was defiant when she continued.

'I've been called to High Hrothgar by the Greybeards. I need to set out for Ivarstead tomorrow morning. Once I'm there, I'll see what they want with me – and then I'll be coming _back_. To stay.' She glowered as she looked from face to face, scowling at all of the people in the room.

'Anyone who's got a _problem_ with that is welcome to take it up with me – _later_.'

With that, she whirled on her heel – went to stalk from the study, and nearly plowed head-long into Farkas, standing behind her and wincing. She stumbled wordlessly around him, and when she passed through the threshold, she grabbed both doors and yanked them shut behind her; truthfully, it was more of a slam. From beyond the doors, she heard Kodlak's voice.

'No, Farkas, don't. Let her go.'

The weariness in his tone struck her, and Merrin's face flushed with sudden shame. It only spurred the bitter ache in her chest, and she bit back another snarl as she darted down the hallway, avoiding the eyes of her friends as she passed. Farkas had left her rucksack near the door to the newblood's room; she yanked it up off the floor as she went banging inside, and made a beeline for her bed in the corner.

She dropped her pack, and plopped down on the mattress with a harsh sigh, resting elbows on knees. She was visibly shaking, angry and restless and over-tired, and didn't see how she would get any rest. To top all, the crusted gash at her hairline was throbbing in time to her pulse, and building into a headache.

Of all her problems, at least _this_ one she could solve; raising one raw palm to the gash on her forehead, Merrin opened up a channel of healing magic. Right away the pain dulled and the flesh began to mend, and she let loose another sigh.

She hadn't been at it very long when she was startled by a snort from across the room.

'Figures.'

Merrin hadn't noticed that she wasn't alone when she'd come blowing into the room, but as her head whipped around, she realized her mistake.

The last newblood was accounted for. Njada was sitting in a chair across the room, nearly tucked out of sight, with her feet propped up on a nearby dresser and her arms folded over her chest. Her helmet was sitting on a table beside her, and her choppy platinum hair was pulled back from her face. She looked casual, sitting there – lazy, even. But her posture was betrayed by her expression; eyes gleaming bright as they bored into Merrin, and her lips pulled back in a smirking sneer.

'Some sort of mythical freak – and a magic user, too. _Pfft_.' Her tawny eyes flicked to the bag at Merrin's feet, and her nasty smile widened.

'Good to see you're already packing.'

Merrin's stomach clenched, and so did her teeth. Her temper flared at the younger woman's words, but she did her level best to wrestle it down.

'Piss off, Njada.'

Njada barked a laugh.

'Ooou, _scary_. Or what? What're gonna do – Shout me to death?'

Merrin hissed through her teeth; she dropped her hand to her lap as it balled into a fist, and her spell ebbed to nothing as she glowered at the blonde.

'Do you have some kind of hearing problem? I said _piss off_.'

Njada's eyes narrowed, and her smile vanished. She let her feet drop from the dresser to the ground, and as she leaned abruptly forward in her chair, her arms uncrossed, and she gripped the armrests.

'You want to know what my problem is?' She jeered.

'Your uppity _bullshit_ is my problem. You come strolling in here one day, like you think you're Shor's gift to man – and these hare-brains _buy_ it! You did well in your testing – big deal! Since then, most of the idiots around here have been eating out of your hands. But I don't see it. I'm still sitting here, trying to figure out why Kodlak let you in in the first place.'

Merrin's temper had been steadily spiking with every word Njada said – straining like an animal against a lead. And now, the lead had finally snapped. Merrin sprang to her feet from where she'd sat, and her eyes were alight with reckless challenge as she nodded at Njada.

'You think I don't belong here? That I should leave?' She dead-panned.

'Fine. Either shut your god-damned mouth about it, or see if you can _make_ me.'

'Sounds like a plan to me.' Njada lurched from her chair with a jagged nod, and her face was full of feral excitement as she sized Merrin up and grinned.

' _Hold it!'_

The two women hadn't taken a single step when they were interrupted by bodies in the doorway; one by one, Ria, Athis and Torvar came filing into the newblood's room, frames tense and faces stony.

'What's going on in here?' Ria demanded.

'Nothing that concerns you, _twigs_ ,' Njada snarked, without looking away from Merrin. 'Take a hike.'

'I bet _I_ can guess,' Torvar drawled. 'Njada, why can't you ever keep it in your pants?'

' _Shut_ it, asshole! Unless you wanna be next.' Njada snarled, and glanced over to the trio. ' _She's_ the one who called _me_ out! And now she's going to learn.'

'She's been through enough without your _needling_!' Ria shot back. 'I'm not surprised she didn't take it lying down!'

' _Boo-hoo_ ,' the Stonearm snorted derisively. 'What do you want me to do, give her a hankie?'

'I'd like to see her _try_ , about now,' Athis muttered.

' _Enough!'_ Ria rarely raised her voice, or cursed; now she was doing both. The Imperial's eyes were sparking, and she took one menacing step towards Njada.

'Now is no time for your _shit_! _Back off_ , or when she's done with you, you'll have the three of _us_ to deal with.'

For a second Njada looked at her with fierce eyes and teeth bared, as if she welcomed the prospect. In fact, she thought the skinny Imperial was bluffing. But as her eyes flicked over the two men behind her, she could tell by their expressions that they'd back Ria up, if push came to shove. Athis in particular was eyeing her as if he'd love nothing more than to plow a fist into her face.

Seconds passed like that, with the tension so thick in the room that you could cut it with a rusty spoon. Njada seemed to be weighing her options – Merrin was waiting for her to make one wrong move, her nerves stretched so thin that she shook with it.

And then Njada made up her mind; just like that, the fire left her pale eyes, and the tension seeped from her sturdy frame. She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly – as if none of it had really mattered in the slightest – and smirked at Ria carelessly.

'Have it your way, then. I've got better things to do, anyway.' She snagged her helmet from where it sat on the table, and sauntered casually toward the door. Athis and Torvar remained tense and ready, as if they expected her to lunge. When she had one foot through the threshold, she looked at Merrin – stony-eyed and jaw clenched – and her smirk stretched into a caustic smile.

'See what I mean? Like baby deer.'

Then she was gone; chuckling to herself as she breezed through the doors to the mead hall above.

There was a beat of silence in the room – then Torvar broke it with a shake of his head, and a lopsided grin.

'What a bitch. Am I right?'

* * *

When it had been clear the confrontation was over, Athis and Torvar had hung awkwardly back near the door while Ria went over to Merrin. After a minute of them just standing there, she'd sent them to stand in the hall instead, with orders to stop anyone else who tried to come inside. Their door didn't lock, but Ria had closed it with a snap before returning to Merrin and announcing in a no-nonsense voice that it was time to get out of that armor.

Merrin had been too frazzled to argue – to even want to. She had worked in a kind of daze to help Ria undo her straps and pull away the pieces, until she stood there in nothing but a tunic and breeches. And then the Imperial had urged her into bed, and handed her a fresh set of clothes.

She'd tried to protest that she didn't need to be fussed over, but Ria wouldn't hear it; by the time she'd yanked down the clean shirt's hem, a thick glass bottle full of murky liquid was being shoved into her hands.

'Drink that,' she'd been instructed. 'It will help.'

It had been a healing potion – and even though it'd tasted like salty mud when she'd choked it back, it had started working on her wounds straightaway, and Merrin was thankful.

Lastly, Ria had rifled through her armoire and come up holding a stoppered, foggy phial, and looking uncertain. She had bitten her lower lip as she'd offered the phial to Merrin, and explained that it would help her sleep, if she would take it.

And after only a moment's hesitation, Merrin had.

Normally, she would've said no; she'd never been in the habit of using tinctures to sleep, and doing it now felt like cowardly surrender – it rankled. But she couldn't remember a time where she'd ever been so jumbled, so frantic and restless, so bone-tired and overwhelmed, all at once. In the end, she'd given in, and tossed back the phial with a grimace.

Now it was taking effect. She was lying in her bed, on her stomach, with the quilt pulled up to the small of her back and her face pressed into her pillow. Ria had blown out all but two candles, and put one of them on the closest nightstand, in a pewter holder. The lanky brunette was sitting on the side of Merrin's mattress, and rubbing soothing circles in the middle of her back. It comforted Merrin more than she could say – more than she felt she deserved, after how she'd acted. She forced herself to turn her head, to open her mouth and form words, despite her tongue feeling like it weighed ten pounds.

'Ria...thank you. You didn't have...to do this. I'm grateful.'

'Shh,' Ria hushed. 'Let your potion work. You don't have to talk – I know, Merrin.'

Merrin grumbled.

'Wanna be sure.'

Ria smiled. Her fondness for the woman beside her had only grown as she'd known her; not for the first time, her heart went out to Merrin as she stared at her back in this darkened room. Impulsively, she opened her mouth and spoke her mind.

' _I_ want to be sure of something, too. I want you to understand that, no matter what happens, you're going to be fine. Better than fine. And that no matter what happens, I'll have your back. Okay? I promise.'

For a moment, there was no response. Then Merrin gave a single, dry chuckle, and nodded.

'I shouldn't be surprised by now. But I am. Thank you...for being my friend.'

The potion had settled over her like a heavy blanket – now it grew heavier still, making thought impossible. No more questions, no more doubts. No more feelings. The last thing she was aware of was a shadow dancing over the edge of her mattress, and then she was out.

* * *

Merrin was eventually woken by the feeling of a heavy weight settling on her mattress edge.

Several hours had passed, since she'd taken the sleeping draft; in those hours, things had transpired and been said that she was blissfully unaware of. It was quiet in the hall now, and peaceful; hardly a reflection of what the day had held.

The candles had burned down to nubs in their holders, but there was still light enough in the room for her to recognize Farkas, when she turned her face.

He was staring at her gently, carefully, and in the dim light, his blue eyes were soft. He had his hands loosely fisted in his lap; when she met his gaze, his expression was almost shy.

'Hey,' he whispered.

'Hey, yourself,' she whispered back, and was met with a slow, blooming smile.

She rolled over slowly, quilt and mattress rustling, and looked up at Farkas. The curve of his cheek was limned in faint candlelight, and the rest was thrown into shadow. She didn't look around to see if they were alone in the room – didn't strain her ears for the sounds of breathing. She just looked at him. As she did, he brought one hand gently down on her arm, and gave her a tiny squeeze.

'I came to see how you were doing.'

'And?' She crinkled her nose. 'What do you see?'

He sighed. 'Somebody who's been through a lot. Do you really have to leave in the morning?'

She'd grimaced at the first thing he'd said. But at his question she grew serious, and nodded.

'I do. For High Hrothgar.'

'It's so sudden. And so _far_.'

Even whispered, she could hear the worry and regret in those words. And she was still hazy from the sleeping draft; those two things combined had her opening her mouth and asking him the question, in an eager voice she'd normally temper.

'Would you come with me?' It seemed like an obvious choice – in the sleep-heavy dimness of that room, she knew there was no one she'd rather have along.

But as soon as she'd asked, his face fell. Brows crumpled, and smile faded.

'Oh – Mer, I can't. I'm sorry. I'd _love_ to, but...' Farkas winced.

'While you were asleep, Vilkas told me he needed my help on a job in Solitude – said it _had_ to be me. We leave at first light.'

'Oh.'

The news didn't make her angry; just oddly sad and deflated. She was hit by a wave of disappointment, and in her foggy state, all she could do was take it. Haltingly, she nodded at him.

'Alright. I understand.'

He winced again, and gave her arm another squeeze. In the meager light, his blue eyes were actually shining, apologetic and sincere.

'I really _am_ sorry.'

She shook her head.

'Just promise me that I'll see you before you head to Solitude.'

'I _promise._ ' He shot the words back instantly, a little too loud, and nodded hard. 'Anything you want.'

She was still disappointed, but the look on his face was so earnest and repentant that it tugged a smile from her. His own was quick to rise when he saw it, and for a second they just stayed like that, smiling at each other. Then Merrin was taken by an enormous yawn, and Farkas let her go.

'Shoulda known you'd need more rest,' he mumbled, seeming suddenly abashed. 'I just wanted to check on you. I should let you get back to sleep.'

Normally, she would've argued. But the yawn had seemingly blurred her vision, and she could feel herself slipping back into darkness. Was _this_ really what it was like, to sleep with a draft?

'I'll see you in th'morning,' she slurred in resignation.

The potion took her the second time just as quickly as the first; she barely heard his quiet 'you bet', and by the time Farkas closed the bedroom door behind him, she'd already fallen back asleep.

* * *

Most of Whiterun was still abed when the city gates yawned open next morning, and several people slipped through. Dawn was just rising over the plain, and coiled tendrils of mist were wafting up from the grass to meet the infant sun.

The air around them was brisk and chilly, but Merrin hardly noticed.

A heavy night's sleep had done little to change her mood, and she was solemn and silent as she crossed the drawbridge. Every joint she had was stiff, but she walked straight and upright, anyway.

She'd woken well before dawn to prepare. Food and warm clothing had been packed in haste, and then she'd done an even hastier wash; far from the drawn-out soak she'd longed for for days, Merrin had thrown herself into the spring and scrubbed furiously until she was clean and red, then hurried back into the hall. Her thick hair was still wet in its new braid, and it lay cold and heavy against her bare neck. Her rucksack was heavier than she'd like on sore shoulders, but everything in it was essential. Her sword was waiting in its sheath, tapping whisper-quit as she walked against the chausses she hadn't had time to repair, and her quiver was full of brand new arrows. Hanging unstrung on the side of her pack was a bow that Aela had generously lent her; the bow she'd taken out of Helgen had been lost on the plains, and she'd already written it off.

When Ria let loose a huge yawn from where she kept pace beside her, it startled Merrin from her brooding.

Her friend had stirred awake when Merrin had, offering without preamble to join her on the trip so she wouldn't be alone. Merrin had been as surprised as she was grateful, and had accepted in a stammer. Now the Imperial walked beside her in the brisk dawn, similarly weighed down and looking tired.

The brothers were walking in silence several strides ahead of them, and Merrin's eyes narrowed as she stared at the backs of those two dark heads. When Farkas had told her he couldn't come with her because his brother _needed_ him, she hadn't been angry. But she'd had some time to get up to speed. Vilkas had pushed for his brother to hurry the entire time they'd made ready, and it was only Farkas' stubbornly easy pace that had the four of them leaving at the same time. Vilkas hadn't kept his ire to himself; now, as they approached the city stables, he was emanating a stony chill comparable to the morning.

He'd obviously made arrangements the night before; a carriage driver was already waiting on his buckboard, two Palomino chargers hitched up and ready to take the brothers to Solitude. The driver was smoking a clay pipe in the early sun, and when he saw them coming down the cobbled path, he straightened up on the board and waved.

Vilkas wasted no time at all, slinging his pack into the back of the carriage without looking back. But Farkas hung behind. He turned to look at Merrin as she sidled up with Ria, and then he sighed.

'Hey, look. I really _am_ sorry. I wish I could be going with.' His voice was sheepish, and a bit quiet, and he nodded at Ria beside her.

'I'm glad you won't be going alone. But still.'

'Relax, big guy.' Ria gave a wry smile. 'Us women-folk will manage without you, somehow.'

Instantly, Farkas flushed. 'Come on, that's not how I—'

'We know.' Merrin cut over him with a smile of her own. 'Don't worry, Farkas, it's fine. Really. I'm not mad.' _At you._

He looked relieved at that, and she slid her pack off with a little groan before she changed the subject.

'How long until you make it to Solitude?'

Blue eyes rolled, and he grimaced. 'About three days. And that's if the trip is quiet.'

She gave a low whistle, and shook her head. 'I don't envy your ass on that wooden seat.'

'Tell me about it. I just—'

'Farkas.'

It was Vilkas, come striding back from the carriage, and he sounded brusque and unimpressed. The somewhat shorter man came to a stop beside his twin and clapped a hand on his armored shoulder.

'Come on, we've tarried long enough. The client in Solitude expects us for Morndas.' His eyes swept over Merrin then, and they were cold – his expression hard. He barely reined in a scowl, and shook his head as he looked back to his brother.

'We have no time for distractions.'

It was lucky he'd looked away from her, because Merrin's eyes flared at those words, and her hands balled into fists.

He could try to hide it from the others, but there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she knew the truth; he didn't _need_ his brother's help. He'd just _told_ Farkas that he did, to keep him from leaving Whiterun with her instead. She'd _heard_ him call her a terrible influence last night. The bastard.

'Just give me another minute. I'll be right there.' At the look on his twin's face, Farkas held up a hand.

'Honest! Another minute. That's all.'

Vilkas audibly scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shook his head, and they could hear him muttering as he stalked back to the carriage and heaved himself up into the back. But Farkas paid him no mind. He looked at Merrin again where she stood in front of him...and just like that, the air was suddenly awkward. He raised a hand to the back of his head, and the toe of his left boot scuffed the dirt as he let loose a nervous sort of chuckle.

'So...'

Ria seemed to pick up all at once on the awkwardness, and decided to give them some privacy.

'Oh!' She exclaimed weakly. 'I just realized, I need to find my...uh..' She shuffled off without another word, walking several steps away and crouching to the ground with her back to them, under the pretense of searching her pack. It was incredibly stiff and obvious, and it was Merrin's turn to give a strangled chuckle as she and Farkas locked eyes again.

'I don't know what's up with her.'

'It's fine. I need to ask you something.' His voice had gone low, and suddenly urgent, and Merrin nearly shivered as a tingle went tripping down her spine at the sound of it.

'Ask.'

'...Are you really coming back?'

She hadn't known what to expect, but it definitely wasn't _that_. Her brow furrowed, and she almost asked him if he was serious – but she could see for herself that he was. His eyes were trained and intense on hers, his brow drawn in with worry. In the second of silence hanging between them, he bit his lower lip.

'Farkas, of course I'm coming back,' she managed. 'Once I'm done with the Greybeards.'

'I want you to _promise_ me.' He took a step forward, and she was thrown completely into shadow as he blocked the early sun.

' _Promise_ me that, Dragonborn or no, when I get back from Solitude you're going to be here. Or that you _will_ be. That..that I'll see you again.'

He'd dropped the hand that he'd lifted to his head, and his arms were stiff at his sides. He was staring at her now with even more intensity, blue eyes churning with it, and several other things – ferocity, worry. Fear. His voice had gone husky, and another wave of tingles assaulted her spine. This time, Merrin shivered.

'Farkas, I promise. I'll be back. I'm with the Companions now. Whether I'm Dragonborn or not, that isn't changing.' She was just as serious as he was, and willed him to see it; she hated the real fear she saw, etched across his face.

After a second, though, he nodded – the bulk of the tension left his body. He let out a gusting breath, and the sheepishness returned.

'I was scared you'd change your mind, and never come back.'

She gave her head an adamant shake. 'Not a chance - you're stuck with me. Alright?'

A small smile tugged at the corners of his broad mouth. 'Alright.'

An idea hit Merrin then, and she spoke the next words before she could think better of them.

'Once we're both back in Whiterun, we could finally have that talk, if...if you'd like.' And she meant it; she had no idea when she'd gotten ready, in the last half a day. She just _was_.

The small smile had bloomed into a brilliant grin as she spoke; his eyes were shining as he nodded.

'I'd like that very much.'

And then he was moving, wrapping his arms around her in a tight and sudden hug that had her breath rushing from her lungs and her feet leaving the ground. He rocked back on his heels with her in his arms, as if he didn't want to let go, and Merrin's heart skipped a beat in her chest.

' _Farkas!'_

Vilkas again – this time there was no missing the anger in his voice.

'Let's _go!'_

He gave her one more squeeze, and then slowly set her down. He looked torn between relieved and regretful, when he looked into her face. Inside, she didn't feel much different.

'I've gotta go. So do you.'

'Yeah.'

'Take care of yourself?'

Merrin took a step back, and nodded. 'You, too.'

With that, Farkas turned around and started jogging towards the waiting carriage and his brother. She could see Vilkas glowering from where he'd stood up in the back, and Farkas called back to him, a touch irritated.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!'

He threw his pack into the back of the carriage and hoisted himself up onto the seat across from Vilkas; immediately, the driver pulled out and steered them toward the northwest road away from the city.

Merrin hoisted her rucksack back onto her shoulders and turned to walk away. Before she'd taken three steps, though, she couldn't resist the urge to turn around and stare after the carriage. When she did, she saw Farkas twisted in his seat, staring back at _her_ down the road. He lifted a hand to her in farewell, and she was quick to do the same, even as her heart gave a hard thump.

They only stayed that way for a second; in the next, the carriage took a bend in the road, and disappeared behind some hills. A sharp pang of disappointed sadness pricked her when it did, and she shook her head as she fiercely shoved it down.

 _Now isn't the time to be sad and fluttery. Especially over a man._

She started walking toward Ria, in the opposite direction of the carriage. Her friend was standing with her bag re-shouldered, her eyebrows arched, and a shrewd look on her face that made Merrin nervous.

'What was _that_ all about?' Outwardly Ria sounded innocent, but Merrin wasn't fooled. Keeping her face as smooth as possible, she shrugged and kept walking, forcing Ria to catch up.

'He wanted to know if I'd be back. I told him of course, I would be. And then he wished me luck.'

If Ria wasn't satisfied with that answer, she didn't show it. She smiled and nodded as she fell into step with Merrin.

'That sounds like Farkas. He's always been sweet.'

Merrin agreed with a noncommittal ' _mmm',_ but didn't say any more, and the pair fell into an easy silence. They'd been walking across the plains for a short while when Ria spoke up again.

'Do you know the road to Ivarstead well?'

The question gave Merrin a jolt, and she wrapped both hands around the straps of her pack as she nodded.

'Well enough.'

This was an understatement; she'd walked the road to Ivarstead more times than she could count. But the last time had been quite a while ago. The thought sobered her, and all at once, a new thought came rushing to the front of her mind – knocking aside thoughts of Farkas, and even of the Greybeards and her destiny. As the morning sun rose in front of them, Merrin grimaced, and squinted against the glare.

She was on her way to Ivarstead. For the first time in nearly three years, she was going home.

* * *

 **What did you think of this chapter? Leave a review, and let me know! :)**


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